by Ann Lawrence
Windsong had no strength left to gallop. They cantered away. Maggie kept watch over her shoulder, biting her lip.
A wild, keening wail rose from the plain. Windsong sidled and balked. The cry rose, tearing at their ears, assaulting their senses. Kered kicked Windsong to move away from the cacophony that sounded like a cry from the grave. As Windsong twisted and turned, his eyes rolling madly, Maggie saw the Red-rose warriors fighting their own mounts’ fear, too. Like maggots on a carcass, the beggars swarmed the horsemen.
Maggie caught a glimpse of an upraised arm, a flash of steel before it was lost to view. The sounds of the horde grew mute, overwhelmed by the whistle of the wind across the barren landscape and the shrill cries of men under attack.
Kered honed his weapons, concentrating his attention on the rhythmic and familiar task, shutting her out.
“Let me see to your wounds.” Maggie knelt before him, placing a hand on his knee.
In answer, he rose and tossed aside his cloak. Maggie stared up at him. It was the poster. The jerkin, the breeches, the knife strapped to his thigh. Her face must have communicated her thoughts.
He went down on his haunches before her. “What is it?” his voice commanded.
“I-I can’t tell you.” The tears ran down her face. Never had he worn this particular clothing. Never.
He gripped her chin, raising her face to his. “You will answer me. You have thought of something—perhaps life-threatening. Some mistake we have made. Tell me.”
His distant behavior, his change from lover to warrior, was too much. The tears ran down her cheeks. “It’s your clothes. I’ve seen them.”
“By the sword! You speak in riddles.” His fingers tightened, bruising her.
How could she explain? The truth might make him think her insane. “I had a dream about you. You stood on Nilrem’s mountain, the sacred sword in your hand. You wore these clothes.”
“And?” he asked. His turquoise eyes hypnotized her to obey him, answer him, regardless of cost.
“And you drew the sword, pointed it there,” she gestured to the sky, “and a fireball appeared, flew through the sky to that mountain.” They both looked where she indicated. The gilded peak loomed ominously near.
Kered abruptly stood and turned away. Maggie watched his back as he considered the distant landscape. When he spoke, her stomach clenched. “You dreamt this before coming to Tolemac, did you not?”
“Yes,” she whispered, nausea rising. It was a small lie. A prevarication to preserve what little remained to bind them together.
“Mount up,” he ordered. In a moment he had sheathed his weapons. He strapped his cloak to the saddle.
Maggie remained kneeling. “We have to check your wounds.” She thought he would refuse. Instead, he turned to her and in a blatantly sensual motion, stripped off his jerkin. With trepidation, she approached. Her fingers were clumsy on the knots of the bandages, but she concentrated and tried to ignore the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, tried to ignore the sudden liquid heat of her insides.
The salve had worked wonders, yet the flayed patches over his ribs still looked like raw meat. She secured the bandages and dropped her hands to his waist. “The rest?”
Kered didn’t say a word as she unlaced his breeches. Maggie’s hands traveled over his warm skin as she peeled the supple leather from his hips, savoring the hard feel of his bones beneath resilient flesh. She wanted to touch him, arouse him to match her own desire, but she didn’t. Instead, she clinically removed the bandage about his thigh, and seeing that the wound looked clean, she retied the cloth and gently pulled his breeches back into place.
He shoved her hands away as she tugged the laces together. In silence, she picked up his jerkin and offered it. He belted it, open to the waist. A lump formed in her throat. But for the stark white cloth wrapping his midriff, he looked as he had in the poster. Beautiful. A warrior from another time and place.
“Mount up.” He linked his fingers and she placed her foot in his palms, swinging up into the saddle. The familiar feel of his thighs about her liquefied her insides again. Her blood heated and thrummed in her veins as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him. The odors of his leather clothing, his sweat, and the oil he used on his weapons enveloped her. She closed her eyes and shut out the world to drink in his heat, his touch, and his scent.
Kered woke her at the base of Hart Fell. The Tolemac sun still ruled the sky. He tethered Windsong and offered his arms so she could dismount. “We made it in two days, didn’t we?” She tried for a neutral conversational tone.
“Aye,” he said, linking fingers with her and striding up the steep slope.
“Wait,” she cried. He let her go and she ran back to Windsong, encircling his neck and whispering against his black hide. “Goodbye, precious boy.”
Windsong raised his head and tossed his mane. With a last wistful look at the stallion, she returned to Kered. They stepped into the trees and began to climb.
At the summit, smoke drifting from the thatched roof told them Nilrem was home. Kered did not knock, just flung the door open. Nilrem looked up from his contemplation of the fire. A
sinuous black cat rose to stand at his side, the flames lighting his feral face.
“What brings you to invite the Gulap inside?” Kered asked, slamming the door.
“The whisper of unrest,” Nilrem said, stroking the Gulap’s flank.
Maggie clung to Kered’s hand. The Gulap yawned.
Kered removed Maggie’s cloak and ran a knuckle across her cheek. She sensed that Nilrem had noted the caress and her skin heated in a deep flush. The Gulap opened his mouth wide in a jack-o’-lantern grin.
“How did word of unrest reach you? I have just now left the capital.” Kered placed his hands on Maggie’s shoulders and steered her to the far corner of the hut and Nilrem’s bed.
“It came with the winds.” Nilrem lifted a goblet and drank.
Maggie huddled on the heavy furs of Nilrem’s bed. Smoke wreathed the rafters, twisting into an opening in the thatch. Kered, slouching, paced about the small hut, pouring out the story of Samoht’s treachery from beginning to end. Each time he passed the cat, it took a swipe. Nilrem finally slapped the beast’s flanks, sending a miasma of stink in Maggie’s direction.
“What do you suggest we do?” Kered asked.
“There is little to say. Had you chosen death for Samoht’s men, you would have had more time. But you were merciful—far more merciful than they would have been to you. ‘Tis too late to wish for their blood. I know Tolem. Detained means a day or two, perhaps three at most.” He laughed into his goblet of ale, dribbling some of it down his beard. “Eight warriors, you say? When Tolem’s women are finished with them, they will scarce be able to crawl up Hart Fell.”
Kered frowned. “His women? I fail to see what the beggar women have to do with this.”
“Tolem’s men may subdue the warriors, but Tolem’s women will keep them on their backs!” He slapped his knees, then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Just imagine—only eight Red-roses for so many women to share! Of course, the warriors may be further delayed if some of the men are desirous of those red rosy buttocks for themselves. All that clean flesh at the beggars’ mercy, oh my.”
“Stop it,” Maggie said. “Can’t you be serious?”
“Ill-tempered, is she not?” Nilrem cocked a gray eyebrow in question, then slapped the Gulap’s hindquarters.
“Range the hills, my friend. Warn us of intruders. Feel free to taste of any who displease you.” The Gulap paced to the hut door and when Kered opened it, the ebony feline melted into the twilight.
Kered sank to a three-legged stool. “Maggie is correct to wish that we cease this speculation. How may we be together?”
“Together!” Maggie rose on her knees and threw off the furs. She climbed off the bed and knelt before Kered, encircling his waist and laying her cheek on his chest.
Kered tenderly stroked her hai
r from her face and lightly kissed the top of her head. “Aye. How may we be together?”
“My son, your father is dead. The council is in shambles. Renewal of war is imminent. ‘Tis unlikely that you will be together for many months. Most likely, six or seven, and then only if you can wipe out all hint of this idea of witchery.”
Maggie turned in Kered’s arms, riven with anger. “I am not a witch!”
“Perhaps not, but the taint of the accusation will spread to eat away at this man’s reputation. Can you deny that? How many saw you together? Sensed your ardor for one another? The N’Olavan guard has but to accuse you of casting a spell over Kered, the Red-rose warriors have but to implicate you in Samoht’s disappearance, and poof—you are smoke and ashes, your bones ground and scattered on the road to the capital as a warning to all.”
“By the sword.” Kered’s arms tightened about her.
Maggie bent her head, her hair curling over Kered’s strong forearms. “Kered’s needed, isn’t he?”
“Aye, my child. Would you deny him his destiny now that he has gained the sword and cup?”
“‘Tis my destiny to deny,” Kered snapped. “I will decide. Hear the truth—Maggie secured the cup and sword.”
“Perhaps you did it together,” Nilrem suggested.
“Or not,” Kered returned.
Nilrem spoke softly. “Then look to the heavens before making any decisions.”
On that cryptic remark, Maggie shivered. Kered drew her up and led her back to the bed. “I want you to rest, Maggie.”
She nodded. Her eyes felt heavy and the bed, though likely flea-ridden, was soft and inviting.
Kered stepped out of the hut, drawing the crisp air into his lungs to clear out the smoke. He looked up. The orbs had aligned. The winds would rise, cutting to the bone with icy fingers. An intangible longing to shed his life and responsibilities nudged at his conscience. All that he had ever dreamt or desired in a lifemate lay sleeping behind him. All that he loathed—war, brutality, the underhanded intrigues of politics—lay ahead. ‘Twas the height of vanity to think that only he could cut through the treachery and restore the Selaw treaty. The agony of his decision coursed like a river of fire through his veins. He silently raged at the gods for setting Maggie in his path and him in Leoh’s.
He touched his new gold arm rings. His hand dropped to the sacred sword at his side. The gesture pulled against the bandages about his ribs. A riffle of wind stirred the leaves at his feet.
An awareness that Maggie stood behind him made Kered turn and face her. The night breeze molded the light silk of her gown to her body. Her gaze caressed him before dropping to his hand on the sword.
She looked to the heavens. “No,” she whispered as if beseeching him for mercy.
Her denial shredded his resolve. The wind blew her hair in a glorious raven cloud about her shoulders, tearing at his insides. He knew what he would do.
He snatched her against his chest with his free arm, crushing her delicate bones against his own. The sacred sword’s hilt burned like molten metal in his palm—searing his decision into his body. His mouth sealed hers for an instant of time. “You are my soul, Maggie O’Brien.”
He thrust her away. Duty and love warred in his heart.
The gleam of the sinking Tolemac sun caught the ancient blade as he whipped it from the scabbard. A red flame dazzled his eyes as he inscribed an arc in the indigo sky, casting a fireball on the distant mountain. Lightning tore the fabric of the newly birthed night.
The orbs blurred before his eyes.
He smote the blade to the ground.
“No-o-o-o.” Her scream echoed across the mountains.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Maggie woke entombed in velvet darkness. She lay disoriented, her stomach churning. Tentatively, she lifted her hand. Heavy. She let it drop.
Blackness pressed down on her. Breathing shallowly, she rolled onto her side. Pain shot through her head. She moaned, gulped down nausea, and curled into a protective ball.
Slowly, she became aware of her surroundings. A distant glow might be light, perhaps from a candle in Nilrem’s window. The ground pressed against her cheek was rough, smelled medicinal. She idly stroked her fingertips along it.
Carpet.
A moan escaped her as she forced herself to her knees. Bent over, she explored with her hands. The near-total blackness told her nothing, but her fingers and nose said new carpeting, its chemical scent heavy in the air. Another scent came to her—the scent of plastic.
And she knew. Knew without a doubt where she was.
She staggered to her feet then fell back down. Her hands grazed along something solid. She wept, silently, in great, body-shaking gulps.
“Kered.” She whispered his name tentatively, hopelessly, not really believing he would answer. Silence was all she heard.
The pain in her head pulsed and throbbed. On hands and knees, she crawled toward the faint glow. It coalesced into the gleam of a streetlight shining into the front window of Virtual Heaven.
Maggie knelt in the doorway of the game booth and stared at the light. Rain ran in sheets down the plate-glass windows. Her ears picked up the harsh whip of wind. She shivered, now aware of the flimsy protection of her gown. She listened intently, seeking some sign that Kered was with her. Only storm sounds filled her ears.
“No, no, no,” she chanted, more alone than she’d ever felt in her life.
As her stomach settled, she grew frightened. What if he lay unconscious in the game booth? Gathering her strength, she stood up and turned back into the small chamber behind her. She thrust her hands out and shuffled her feet carefully along the floor, her fingers searching for the light switch. Her legs trembled. The switch was where she remembered it to be, but she stood for several long moments without using it. Finally, taking a deep breath and offering up a silent prayer, she thumbed the switch. Light flooded the chamber. Instantly, she flicked the light off again. She sank to her knees and leaned her cheek against the wall in the comforting darkness.
She was alone.
She did not want to see the empty chamber, did not want to face the reality of what she knew to be true.
Kered had sent her away.
The ebony shadows of the room filled her eyes, seeped into her soul, and helped her slip into oblivion.
Maggie regained consciousness the second time with sharp-edged clarity. The pain in her head lingered, but had subsided to a manageable level. Her stomach no longer heaved. When she stood up, the world only tilted for an instant before righting itself.
Taking a deep breath, she turned on the light in the booth and refused to look about or make a pointless search. She approached the control platform of the game with resolute steps. The keyboard still meant nothing to her. At her waist, the game gun dug into her side. She pulled it out of her belt and placed it gingerly on the console. Her gaze swept the wide, white screen.
“Why?” she whispered to it. To him. Wherever he was.
She had thought her tears done, but new ones dripped down her face. Grief-stricken, she touched the keys, tapping combinations, seeking a way to turn the game back on.
A whir and hum filled the chamber in a sudden burst of sound and vibration. Maggie flinched away from the controls. Her back came up against the railing. The headpiece, resting there, dropped to the floor with a thud. Then the game fell silent.
Fingers hovering above the slick plastic keys, Maggie hesitated. Could she bear to see him climb that hill? Smile as if he cared. And know he was out of reach. Had sent her away—no, thrust her away. She rubbed her arms. They ached where his fingers had grasped her. She imagined the bruises that would develop there in a few days. Her hands fell to her sides.
Thunder muttered in the distance.
On unsteady legs, Maggie walked out into the main room, using the wall for support. She scanned the shop. Dimly lit by a streetlight across the boardwalk, the shop looked comfortingly familiar. Until she gazed at the south-facing wall. The
wall that had separated Virtual Heaven from Maggie’s Treasures was gone. Virtual Heaven stretched twice its former width.
Maggie stumbled down the aisles of video games and came to a breathless halt. Hands out like a mime, she touched empty space. Crossing into what was once her shop, Maggie rubbed her temples. Maggie’s Treasures had been swallowed up, had ceased to exist.
Turning back, she headed to the door of Gwen’s shop. She shook it blindly, feeling like an animal trapped in a cage. The small red light of the security console mocked her. If she opened the door, the police would come. And Gwen. Maggie desperately, unreasonably, needed to escape the shop and the reality of her situation.
Maggie took a deep, shuddering breath and forced herself to be calm. She had killed a man to save Kered. She could find a way out of a simple shop. Quickly, she scanned the door, the security box. Short of breaking the window, she had no idea what to do.
A curious lethargy settled over her. She leaned her face against the cool glass and stared up and down the deserted boardwalk. How dull and colorless the world looked. It could be midnight or five in the morning. The dense cloud cover and heavy rain prevented her from reading the stars or the position of the moon, prevented her from knowing whether Gwen had just locked up a moment ago or had shut down the shop weeks ago for the winter hiatus and gone to sunnier climes.
By the front door stood a revolving stand of periodicals. The store must still be open, Maggie realized, otherwise the rack would be empty and covered. In fact, the aisles of games would be shrouded against sand and dust as well.
One magazine caught her eye. The cover story of Video Game froze her to the spot, one hand outstretched.
TOLEMAC WARS—NO PEACE.
She grabbed the magazine and flipped quickly through the pages, moving closer to the windows and the meager light shed by the outside streetlamp.
Her hands trembled as the magazine fell open to a long article that spanned several pages. But it was the photograph of a poster in the right-hand corner, not the text, that drew her.