THE CHOOSING

by PhyllisAnn Welsh

  He pushed the fuzzy memories aside as he realized that Feenix was shivering so hard, the branches of his pallet rustled with her involuntary movements. He turned on his side, pulled her into his arms and tucked her beside him, trying to share his own body heat with her. He rubbed his hand up and down her arms and back, warming her with friction.

  “Mmmmm. That feels good.” Her voice was drowsy and slightly shaky against his neck. She snuggled closer, like a puppy searching for its mother’s comfort. In a moment, he knew she was fast asleep.

  He breathed in the scent of her—womanly musk and fresh air—and wanted nothing more than to kiss her awake; to taste those full lips again, but this time in sleepy languor. It was a temptation almost beyond his control. Instead, L’Garn forced himself to be content with rubbing her shoulder.

  He stroked and smoothed her hair just above her rounded ear. He marveled at the smooth curve and shell-like perfection, so different from the ears he was used to. Instead of seeming foreign and strange, he found it exotic and beautiful.

  Feenix had plaited her shining hair in a long, thick braid, and a few errant strands were damp against his cheek. Had there been a rainstorm? But her clothes were dry, and so was everything within his reach. She must have washed it, or perhaps she had taken a bath. His body stirred at the thought of seeing her naked and splashing about in the water.

  By the Jewels, he had to gain control of his thoughts! Think, he commanded himself. Why were they lying here, outside and alone?

  He lay still, holding her body close, and tried to sort out the past few days in his mind. Most of his recollection after the sword fight in the farmhouse was either a blur or completely gone. He did remember waking up and talking with Feenix while she checked his wound.

  His wound!

  Expecting horrible pain, he stilled, fearing to take a deep breath. He concentrated on his wound, and realized his shoulder did not hurt. In fact, it felt as if it had never been sliced to the bone. Experimentally, he moved his right arm.

  Nothing. There was not even any residual stiffness or soreness.

  As slowly as possible, so as not to wake Feenix, L’Garn moved away from her and searched his shoulder with probing fingers. A ragged red scar cut his skin in a jagged pattern, but it was healed over and looked healthy. He traced the crooked stitch marks, but felt no pain.

  Feenix had Healed him! How?

  Maybe the question should be why? he thought to himself. Why would she go to such great lengths to Heal him and take care of him, after she had tried her hardest to kill him? Why had she not left him to die and made good her escape?

  It made no sense.

  As quietly as possible, L’Garn slipped from the sleeping pallet and Feenix’s side. He stood and stretched, seeking for any pains or wounds of which he had been unaware. There were none. He felt well and whole, and actually better than he had in a long time. He was a little tired, but he supposed that was to be expected, considering what his body had gone through in the past few days.

  He quickly checked through the camp, gathering up his gear and one of the swords. His shirt was missing, his tunic covered in blood, but it would have to do. Stopping by the pool, he cupped his hands and drank. The last of the cobwebs fled from his mind.

  L’Garn looked about him to get his bearings. It did not take long. The magic, inherited from his silvan mother, was handy. He was a tracker and hunter of great renown among his people. It was the only skill he possessed that his grandfather approved.

  By the position of the small moon, Eon, he knew the night was fairly young. He recognized the cave of the Watcher, and had a good idea of his position.

  L’Garn looked back at the sleeping woman and smiled. How clever to hide directly under the nose of the black dragon. His people would never think to look for them here.

  He returned to Feenix’s sleeping form. What to do with her while he tended to business? He feared she would not sleep through the night. That would be too much to expect from the woman, he acknowledged. However, he hesitated to again chain her. She had won her freedom, but he saw no help for it. If she woke and found him gone, she would leave and the Watcher would surely kill her.

  No, for her own protection, and his sanity, he would chain her to a tree. She could move about some, but not escape. It was the best solution, although she would want to run a sword through him again for his action.

  He had been surprised to find Feenix’s chains still in his pouch when he had gathered up his gear. His finger touched another piece of metal—the silver key. Why had she not removed the collar and manacles from around her neck and wrists? He had no answer.

  The chain reached from a stout tree to her left wrist. He would not hinder movement of her favored hand by fettering it. After an agonizing debate with himself, he also put her sword close by, in case she needed to defend herself from some beast. It was probably a stupid idea, he admitted, but he felt better for doing it. The tree was too thick for her to hack through with the blade, and the chain was too strong. Feenix would not escape before he returned.

  After wolfing down the remains of the food and bringing a pot full of water within reach of the sleeping human, L’Garn left the camp. He was easily able to pick out Eagnad’s tracks in the soil, but he really did not need the evidence of the slave’s passing. The prince knew where he was, and where he was going.

  When he entered the house, all evidence of any fight had been removed. Someone had scrubbed the floor, removing all trace of blood, and the tables and benches were righted. Everything was in its place. If he did not know better, he would have sworn nothing more violent than a disagreement over a meal had taken place in the room.

  The noise of his arrival brought an elderly elf from the back of the house.

  “Your highness,” he said with a deep bow. “We feared for your life! His majesty sent a company of warriors Atop to search for you and the human slave.”

  It was as he feared, L’Garn thought. His grandfather thought he could not control a simple female slave.

  “As you can see, Sarnett, I am well. Where is everyone?”

  “They are about the farm, searching for you and that human slave.” The elderly elf looked as though he would faint with relief at his prince’s safe return. L’Garn gave him a huge grin. Although Sarnett was a cousin on his royal grandmother’s side of the family, he had been in the royal family’s employ since before L’Garn’s birth.

  “Did you think to be rid of me, Sarnett? I am not so easily disposed of, as my grandfather well knows.” He clapped the old elf on the back in a kindly gesture. “Send runners. Let them know I am well. I will speak to the king myself, but first, what is to eat? I am famished!”

  “I am sure it is not my place to comment about the king, Prince L’Garn,” the older elf said as he led the way to the kitchens. “Yet it can not be denied that there was quite a bit of blood about the place which had to be cleaned up. Except for bloodied bits of your shirt, and some broken furniture, there was no trace of you.”

  L’Garn chuckled. “I can see I was very inconsiderate for making such a mess while I fought for my life. Next time, I will clean up after myself, how is that?”

  “Humph!” the servant answered as he turned from his Prince.

  Before leaving to assign the runners, Sarnett heaped a plate full of fruits and cheese and placed it before L’Garn. The prince noticed that the old elf only chose the fruits that were L’Garn’s favorite. It was good to be with the elderly retainer. Sarnett was the only person, besides his mother, of course, who had ever shown him kindness without expecting something in return.

  As the prince ate, Sarnett returned.

  “I told you it was not a good idea to dismiss the staff and bring that human here, your highness.”

  “All would have been well, if I had not given her a sword.” L’Garn almost choked with laughter at Sarnett’s face.

  “You gave her a sword? What ever for?”

  “She said she was a great warrior and would k
ill me if I but gave her the chance. I was tired of hearing of her boasts and so I unchained her and gave her a sword.”

  “That explains the amount of blood, then. What did you do with her body?”

  L’Garn felt a stab of embarrassment as he explained what happened to his old friend.

  “Actually, I did not kill her.”

  “No?” The surprise made Sarnett’s eyes wide.

  “No. She nearly killed me. In fact, if she had not somehow cast a Healing Spell upon me, I would probably be dead right now.”

  “Healing Spell,” the retainer sputtered in shock. “It is forbidden for slaves to have spells, especially Healing Spells.”

  “Apparently, our human did not know about that rule, and a good thing, as far as I am concerned.”

  He picked up a red apple and stuffed it into his pouch.

  “I must report to the king, Sarnett. And of course show myself to my mother so she will not worry.”

  “At the news of your death,” the old elf said, “the princess took to her bed. The physicians and priests are holding a deathwatch over her. It is feared she will take her life. You had best hurry and let her know you are well, highness.”

  Dread filled his heart. It had not occurred to him that his mother would take her own life should he die. He knew she was unstable and apt to go off on strange starts, but to become suicidal at his death was a shock.

  “Sarnett, are all the staff hunting for me? Is there no one here who can cast a Commune Spell to let my mother’s companions know I am well?”

  “I am afraid not, sir. I am the only one here except for that batch of slaves you ordered brought Atop yesterday.” The regret in his voice did nothing to comfort the prince.

  “I had forgotten about them.” L’Garn remembered giving orders to have all the Sea Elf slaves rounded up and sent Atop. He had to get them out of his grandfather’s sight before the king had someone else execute them. “Where are they?”

  “They are housed in the second barracks. Shall I have them moved, highness?”

  “No. Let them rest there until I return. I will have orders for their new duties then.”

  He hoped his plan would work and he could convince Zimpher that they were no longer a threat.

  “Thank you for the meal, my friend,” he said, gathering up his things. “I will be back before morning.” He rushed out the door.

  Before the servant could return to his duties, L’Garn was back.

  “One more thing, Sarnett. Are you familiar with a slave named Eagnad?”

  “Eagnad?” the old elf asked, scratching his head in thought. “I am sure I do not know him, your highness. But I could have a runner sent to fetch him, if you would like.”

  “Never mind,” L’Garn replied. “I will ask Lala after I speak with the king.”

  With that, he was out the door at a dead run.

  ~*~

  “I should have killed that scum of a half-elf when I had the chance!”

  Feenix jerked on the chain that held her fast to a large tree. The fact that L’Garn had left her the sword and a container with water did little to soothe her fury.

  “The sword was a mistake on his part,” she growled after a sip of the water. “The next time I see his sorry tipped ears, I’m going to run him through, and this time I won’t stop to bind him up!”

  She had woken to a pounding headache that started in her shoulders and climbed up her neck, up the back of her head, and erected a permanent home in her temples. She remembered Rendolin and the Spell, and she could vaguely recollect watching L’Garn’s shoulder heal under her hand. The residue of the priest’s magic still lingered in her mind, and she thought she could still taste rosemary in the back of her throat.

  “That’s what I get for dabbling in magic! The elf-man is healed completely and goes his merry way, and I am left with a headache that would take a dragon to its knees, and captured yet again! Where’s the justice in that, Mac Lir?”

  She raised her face and voice to the star-filled sky. The two moons of Tylana rode low on the horizon; morning was not far off.

  “Why don’t you just kill me and get it over, you miserable excuse for a god?”

  She paced the area around the tree, working herself into a frenzy as she yelled at the god.

  “No! That would be a waste, wouldn’t it? Then who would you have to torture? Who would provide your entertainment then, Mac Lir?”

  For the third time, she examined the lock that secured the length of chain around the trunk of the tree. What she wouldn’t give for a slender piece of wire…or better yet! A metal thief’s pick like the one she used to own when she roamed the streets of Port Marcus as a snot-nosed child.

  “One of the drawbacks of being a slave,” she muttered to herself, “was you couldn’t own any useful property! Like a dagger or sword or a lock pick!”

  She grabbed a good-sized rock from the base of the ravine’s wall and contemplated the effect of smashing the lock with it. Would it release the spring or merely cause the lock to be crushed without opening, effectively fettering her to the tree forever?

  “Ha! You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Mac Lir?” She tossed the rock away from her. “Well, I’m not going to ruin the lock, so you can just put that thought out of whatever you use for a brain! I’m going to get out of this newest mess you put me in, and when I do, don’t ever expect me to talk to you again!”

  She kicked the sleeping pallet with her foot, scattering the branches in every direction. Then sitting on the rock by the cold fire, she drew her sword and began polishing it with a piece of her ragged gown. The activity calmed her as she concentrated on the familiar job. The repetition of rubbing the hard steel with the cloth, up and down, back and forth, soothed her anger and helped her to think about her predicament.

  Feenix ran different scenarios for escape through her head, as her hands continued to perform the simple task that they had done countless times before. Perhaps she could find something here in Eagnad’s place that could be used for a pick? But what? The lock was small, and a piece of metal that size would be difficult to find here in a ravine. The only thing she had seen that even remotely resembled metal, besides her sword and L’Garn’s dagger—which he had very inconveniently taken with him—was the spoon the little troll had used during their supper.

  The sky began to lighten. The night sounds grew still, and even the light breeze stilled as if it, too, held its breath in anticipation of the new day. Then, thousands of birds decided to herald the birth of the sun at the same time, and the air was suddenly filled with cheerful song.

  She couldn’t help it. She turned her face to the east and a shiver of excitement raced through her body. She was going to see the sunrise for the first time in more days than she cared to count. Laying the sword down, she stood and held her breath, waiting with the wind for the first glimmers of the dawn.

  The sky over the mineral pool was clear of the ceiling of leaves, and she was thankful that it was eastward in the ravine. She watched with tears in her eyes as purple fingers of light slipped over the mountains, as if the sun used the great rocks to pull itself up into the sky, like an old woman rising from her knees.

  “Oh, Mac Lir,” she whispered as if afraid to frighten the dawn. “You may be a miserable son of a sea whore, but when you get something right, it can take my breath away.” She swallowed against the prickly pain of tears in the back of her nose. “How can such beauty exist in a world so miserable and cruel?”

  The breeze came to life and stirred the hair at her neck. Again sitting on the rock, she absentmindedly brushed the tendrils aside and watched the sun push back the night, claiming the sky as its domain. She watched the golden glow caress the tops of the trees and the edge of the distant mountains, and she longed for the feel of its golden warmth on her face.

  Slowly, the sky filled with light and the first faint touches of the sun’s beams crawled across the ravine floor. Soon, her skin would feel the life-giving force of the sun, and her fl
esh pebbled with a tiny shiver of anticipation. She couldn’t take her eyes off the golden luster haloing the cliff walls and tops of the trees.

  Unbidden, a feeling of apprehension tickled her brain. She tried to push it away, but instead it grew in its persistence. The birds stilled; not a noise could be heard. Again, the world held its breath, but this time the wait was for something dreadful.

  She stood and searched the ravine for the source of her unease. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but her skin began to crawl, and her knees wobbled a bit with Fear.

  And then she knew.

  Frantically, she searched the sky. The dragon was returning to its lair, which was directly above her hiding place. She picked up the sword and gulped great breaths of air to calm her nerves.

  Feenix darted to the side of the ravine wall and crouched behind a large boulder. The trees were thick here, and the shade gave her a false sense of security, as if she were safely hidden from the dragon’s eyes. The chain was long enough to allow her to reach the hiding place, but it was taut and didn’t let her move around much.

  “Mac Lir, just when I begin to think you have some redeeming qualities, you go and throw something like this at me.” She kept her voice low because she knew from first hand experience, dragons had remarkable hearing. “You know I hate dragons, don’t you? What is this? Another game to play at my expense? Well, you can just keep your little pet away from me, because I don’t feel like playing today!”

  No sooner had the words left her mouth, than the tops of the trees began to writhe and dance as if they were in agony. A huge shadow swallowed the sun’s radiance and a fetid stench that Feenix had prayed she never would experience again filled the air.

  The warrior woman stilled, paralyzed with the effects of the dragon’s innate weapon, Fear. By the god’s blue eye, she hated feeling like a helpless child again! She had sworn she would never be in a situation like that again, and here she was. About to wet herself because a dragon was nearby.

  “Pull yourself together, woman! It doesn’t know you’re here, and will just fly into its cave and leave you alone!” She passed a shaky hand over her face, wiping sweat from her eyes. “You’re not some dirty street urchin, begging to be someone’s next victim. You are Captain Feenix of Port Marcus, by Mac Lir’s toe! Get a grip on yourself, and stop quivering like a leaf in the wind!”