THE SHADOWLORD

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

  Orithia knew what lay ahead for her if she was unable to escape the Rysalian's fiendish plans. She knew what instructions waited upon the ceasing of her monthly flow. She had to find a way out of the seraglio before the dehumanizing and degrading tutorials began in the performance of the sexual arts.

  "There is no way out of the seraglio, Pale One," Sulaimon said as though he had read her mind. "You will be interned here for the remainder of your life."

  "Don't count on it," Orithia swore beneath her breath. She turned her face to the wall, dragging helplessly on her chains, kicking out against the bonds that held her legs captive.

  If it were the last thing she ever did, she would find a way to gain her freedom. And when she did, she would find Jaelan Ben-Ashaman and make him rue the day he ever laid a hand on her.

  Chapter 3

  * * *

  Aradia halted her mount by the river and bent forward, patting the stallion's back. She and her women were hot and tired, the dry desert wind whipping under their loose-fitting robes to scour soft skin. It was midmorning of the third day of their travels, and in the distance, the skies were turning black with an approaching storm.

  "We should find shelter soon," Phillipa suggested. "That looks to be dangerous."

  Lightning sewed a fiery stitch across the heavens, and a low rumble followed close on its hem. Here, near the Nilus River, the danger of flash flooding was a real possibility. In the blink of an eye, a rider could be swept from her mount and carried to her death, her body tumbling down the cataracts.

  "Aye, the air is turning cooler," Okyale said. "Not a good sign."

  Aradia nodded and straightened in the saddle. Stretching, she looked around. "Daedal is the closest town, according to my map. There's a caravansary there."

  "How far away?" Phillipa inquired.

  "An hour's ride, maybe less."

  "Good, because I'm starving," Euryleia complained.

  "You are always hungry," Okyale said. "I wish you would eat normal helpings instead of the bird pecks you take."

  "I refuse to eat like a horse at a trough. If you do, that is your problem, and the widening of your hips tells the tale, does it not?"

  "My hips are classic!" Okyale said.

  "Classically wide, you mean," Euryleia responded dryly. "You could carry a flagon of wine on your ass and never spill a drop!"

  "How dare you insult me like that!"

  "If the girdle stretches..."

  Aradia exchanged a weary look with Phillipa. Though Eury and Oky were good friends, if one said "white," the other said "black." Their constant bickering was more comical than annoying.

  "Stop!"

  "What?" the two asked in unison, identical inquiring looks on their faces.

  "We'll eat once we get to Daedal,"Aradia said between clenched teeth. "But I'll warn you again, be careful what you say. Is that understood?"

  "But why, Ardy?" Eury inquired.

  Aradia sighed and looked to Phillipa for help.

  "We are pilgrims on the way to the convent at Natunwadi," Phillipa explained after a harsh sigh of her own. "Pilgrims who have taken an oath of allegiance to the Prophetess. We must act as holy women. Do not insult one another, and never curse."

  "Oh, yes. Now I remember."

  "Try not to forget it," Phillipa advised in a dry tone. "Your freedom may well depend on it."

  "There can be no slip-ups," Aradia said. "The Rysalians bear a grudging respect for holy women and will leave us alone. Otherwise, as foreign women, we would be fair game for their slave marketers. I don't know about the rest of you, but I have no desire to spend my life stretched out beneath a sweaty, slobbering Hasdu with a gut the size of a hippopotamus."

  "You made your point, Ardy," Euryleia said, chastened.

  The women lapsed into silence as they followed the meandering Nilus through the Khepri Valley. Behind them, the storm rapidly advanced, the rumbles louder and heavy with enough force to shake the ground. The brisk wind whipped at their clothing. When the first drops of rain struck their heads, they increased their pace until the horses pounded through the lowering afternoon.

  "There!" Aradia said as they entered Daedal, pointing to what looked to be a stable.

  Pelting rain rapidly fell, and lightning shrieked across the firmament. The stable boy barely spared them a glance as they dismounted and tied their horses to the hitching post. He moved aside as the strangers crowded into the stable's entrance to flee the deluge.

  Aradia made the boy aware of what she needed. Nodding tiredly, he led the horses one at a time into the stable to warm, dry stalls, where he would rub them down, feed and water them, then watch over them through the night. For his trouble, Aradia tossed him a small bag of silver coins, the sight and weight of which seemed to please him. He smiled wanly, then trudged away.

  Phillipa plucked at Aradia's sleeve and cocked her chin toward a large building. "The caravansary?"

  Aradia nodded. She led the way across the rapidly mudding street and reached the caravansary just as a particularly vicious crack of thunder shook the town.

  "Come in, come in!" the innkeeper cried, opening the door. No doubt he had seen their approach and knew they would be in need of lodgings. As the last of his visitors entered, he stuck his head out the doorway and craned his neck to look at the turbulent heavens. "A very bad night, indeed, Sisters!"

  Aradia inclined her head in answer. "The heavens are sad this eve, Milord inn's man," she said in perfect Diabolusian High Speech.

  Frowning as he caught a whiff of the sour smell emanating from their robes as they passed, the innkeeper was about to bundle them off to a side room but stopped as their leader held up a shiny gold sovereign. His eyes widened as she jingled a heavy bag of coins, indicating more of the same.

  With a hand spiraling from head to chin to belly, he welcomed them to his establishment. "I have a table near the fire pit." He held out his arm, showing the way.

  With Aradia in the lead and Phillipa bringing up the rear, the women moved to the warmth of the fire. With their clothing soaked through, the clammy wool pressing intimately against their shivering flesh, they looked a miserable lot as they took seats at the rough-hewn table.

  "May I suggest mulled date wine to ward off the peculiars?" the innkeeper suggested. "On such a night, I am sure the Arch-Deaconess would not mind you imbibing."

  Aradia nodded. Opening the drawstring of the bag, she took out four coins and slowly placed them on the table. She thought better of her disbursement and added a fifth coin, knowing her overpayment would insure privacy and discretion.

  The innkeeper beamed, his jowls wobbling as he profusely thanked her. He bowed, clapped his hands, and ordered a private room be made available.

  The women watched as servants hurried to do his bidding. They lit a fire in an adjacent room and carried in bedding from the outer rooms, providing the best accouterments.

  "My good wife has made fish stew and I am sure you will find it very palatable," the innkeeper advised. "She is a most worthy cook. Her repasts are legendary in the Khepri Valley. Her bread..." He cupped the fingers of his right hand and brought the fingertips to his mouth. "Ah, her bread is the best you will ever eat! And the goat cheese!" He rolled his eyes to indicate the worthiness of the dairy product.

  Aradia inclined her head in acceptance. "We will welcome your lady-wife's fare, for we have traveled long this day."

  "When you have warmed, please make yourselves comfortable in the private room. All will be ready for you." He bowed again and still again as he backed away, leaving his obviously wealthy guests to their privacy.

  Giving the fire in the private room time to ward off any chill, the women were content to bide their time at the blazing fire pit. Steam rose from their woolen robes and the stench grew overpowering. Aradia leaned against the thick cushion upon which she sat and closed her eyes. She was hungry, tired, and a nagging headache had been hounding her for most of the afternoon. The dampness did not help, nor the clinging scratc
h of the wool plastered to her arms and legs. She was acutely uncomfortable and growing more so by the minute. She longed for the safety of the private room, hoping she could strip down to her short gown.

  "Dare we ask him for a tub of hot water?" Okyale inquired.

  "I think not," Phillipa replied. "It would be--"

  The door crashed open. A sharp gust of wind rushed into the room, extinguishing the candles and sending a fine mist of rain over the guests. A strong scent of brimstone wafted over the women, making their eyes water and their noses crinkle. An unearthly howl rent the air. Before the innkeeper could rush to close the door, a figure appeared on the threshold, robe billowing, lightning flaring behind to lend the silhouette an evil bent.

  "Milord!" The portly innkeeper gasped and fell to his knees, his forehead touching the floor.

  The black-robed figure entered the darkened room, his face partially covered with the folds of his black ghutra head covering. He ignored the innkeeper and strode to the far end of the room, his boot heels tapping heavily on the planking. After removing his black leather gloves, he threw them on a table, unfastened the hook at his throat, and swirled the robe from his shoulders, carelessly tossing it to a chair. Beneath the robe, his leather breeches and long silk tunic were as ebon as a starless night.

  "Get the hell up, Jubil," came an irritated growl. "You know I hate it when you do that!"

  The innkeeper got clumsily to his feet and backed away, bobbing like a crazed woodpecker. "My apologies, Milord. Please forgive me!"

  "Stop that, too! I hate it even more when you grovel."

  Aradia and her women had stiffened at the first sound of the authoritative voice. Covertly staring at the stranger, they saw little, save the dark shape of him at the far end of the room. He gave an impression of authority as he swung a long leg over the back of his chair and sat down.

  "Will you be eating with us tonight, Milord?" Jubil asked, hastily moving to relight the candles on the tables closer to Aradia and her group.

  "Would I have ridden all this way from Abbadon in the midst of a raging storm if not for Olufemi's food?"

  "It is not your favorite, Milord," the innkeeper said miserably. "It is fish stew and--"

  "Stew will be fine."

  As light from the candles brightened the room, the women got a better look at the newcomer, tall, wide of shoulder, and muscular. Reclining with one leg stretched out, the other hooked at the boot heel in the lower rung of his chair, the chair tipped back and balanced on two legs, he appeared at ease. Though he sat facing them, the shadows were still too dark to show his face. It was not until the innkeeper lit the candle on the newcomer's table that the women got a good look at a face that made each of them draw in a quick breath.

  Aradia had once known a man whom she thought to be the most handsome ever fashioned by the gods. His swarthy good looks, coupled with ebony hair and sparkling brown eyes, had caused her many sleepless, aching nights. His memory had plagued her over the years, and she yearned to feel his strong male body atop her own once more. Until the moment her gaze fell upon the newcomer, she would not have believed it possible for there to be another man as alluring and sensual as the one from whose arms she had been so cruelly thrust.

  "By the Goddess," Okyale whispered.

  Aye, Aradia thought, taking in the raw sexual energy coming from the newcomer. This male had been fashioned by the Goddess, Herself. How else to explain the finely chiseled features, the striking amber eyes, gleaming raven hair, two long thick braids framing shoulder-length flowing waves, and full, deep coral lips?

  Crisp black hair was nested at the open V of the tunic unbuttoned half way to his slender waist. The wet black silk clung to his body, doing nothing to hide the muscles bunching along his upper chest and straining the sleeves over his biceps. Thighs encased in shiny black leather were taut with muscles, pulling against the bulge at the juncture of his spread legs.

  Unlike most Rysalian males, he was not bearded. His complexion was as dark as that man's who had held Aradia's heart in thrall for so long, but the stranger's flesh was not oily, held no shine. His eyebrows were not as bushy as the Diabolusian's had been, yet were thick and slashed provocatively upward into midnight hair that glistened with raindrops. As he thrust his hand through that damp crop of waves from his neck, every woman drew in a ragged breath, sensing the tactile strength in those long, slender fingers. His was a hand bred to the sword, fashioned for a dagger, and they recognized in him a superior warrior.

  He had yet to acknowledge their presence. His amber eyes--glowing honey-gold from the light of the candle--stared into the flame, his head cocked to one side. His posture gave the impression he was experiencing great weariness, a deep sadness of spirit that had drained him of energy and emotion. When the innkeeper placed a goblet of wine before him, he glanced up, but said nothing. As he brought the goblet to his finely chiseled lips, he noticed the group by the fire and frowned. His eyes narrowed as he took a sip, and his gaze held steady.

  Aradia felt the power of that gaze when it passed over, then returned sharply, to her. With his eyes locked on her, she wished the floorboards would open and allow her to drop through. His intent gaze made her feel vulnerable.

  "Are you going to the Wadi?" he asked, his deep voice as commanding as his gaze.

  Aradia nodded, not daring to stare into those tawny eyes for fear he could read her mind.

  "The road is washed out at Ammonrea." He lowered his goblet to the table and rocked it from side to side on its pedestal base. "Best you take the mountain road up to Assaraba, then down."

  "Thank you, Milord. We are grateful for your advice," Aradia replied in Diabolusian.

  As she spoke, a twitch pulled a muscle in the stranger's left cheek before he took another long swallow of his libation. When he lowered the goblet, that same muscle became taut and his full lips tightened.

  The innkeeper returned from the kitchen, bearing a heavy trencher of aromatic stew. Bypassing Aradia and her group, he walked to the man's table and placed the offering before him as though it were a sacrifice to a Dark God.

  Annoyed the stranger received his meal first, Aradia dug her nails into her palms and wished she could tell the fat man what she thought of his hospitality. Her anger became somewhat mollified when the stranger put a hand on the innkeeper's arm. The innkeeper's portly face held an instant terror. He began to quake like a bowl of pudding.

  "Where are your manners, Jubil?" the stranger inquired in a deceptively soft voice. "Were they not here before me?"

  "Aye, Milord, but you--"

  "I can wait."

  Trembling, his arm still held captive beneath the lethal sword hand that held it, the innkeeper looked as though he would faint. His groan of relief echoed through the room as the stranger released him.

  "So you are from Diabolusia?" the stranger asked Aradia.

  "Aye, Milord."

  "You are going to make your vows to the Prophetess?"

  "We have felt the Call, aye, Milord."

  He stared at her. "Is that so? And from which convent have you traveled? Afanarse? Curación? "

  Aware of his sharp gaze, the way he watched her, Aradia heard blood pounding in her ears. "We have traveled from Deseo, Milord."

  His eyes slightly narrowing again, he nodded. A leisurely smile stretched his full lips, and he lifted his goblet to them. "Then take my personal wishes with you as you travel, Sisters."

  Feeling Phillipa stiffen beside her, Aradia inclined her head in gratitude. "Thank you, Milord."

  "And may the Wind behind you not be your own." The stranger laughed before downing his ale.

  "Milord Jaelan!" the innkeeper pleaded.

  The stranger held up his hands in surrender, shaking his head. "Just give them the prophet-be-damned food and treat them well, Jubil. The memory of their last night of freedom before becoming slaves to the Sisterhood should last them the rest of their lives."

  Obviously not wanting to have any trouble or dangerous words
spoken, the innkeeper took up the trencher of stew and carried it into the private room, cocking his head at Aradia and her group to follow. "If you have need of the facilities, they are through there." He crooked an elbow toward a door to the right of the fire pit.

  "You believe we are giving ourselves into slavery, Milord?" Aradia asked, ignoring Phillipa's low warning hiss.

  He shrugged. "One man's slavery is another man's delight, I suppose. There are those who revel in being told what to do, when, and how. I've known both sides of the coin, and freedom is better by far."

  "You equate serving with slavery, then?"

  Once more, the muscle bunched in his lean cheek. "Slavery is the absence of free will, Milady, of not being able to go where you will, when you will, of performing tasks you would not do if you were given the choice."

  "Are you a free man, Milord?"

  He tore his stare from her and pinned the innkeeper, banging his goblet on the table. "Do I have to distill the liquor myself, Jubil?" he asked irritably, then turned his eyes back to Aradia. "I am as free as I will ever be."

  Aradia sensed pain in his answer. "But you were once a slave."

  "Aye," he said, his eyes narrowed dangerously, "and I have the lash marks to prove it."

  She would never know what made her do it. One minute she was up, walking toward the private room, the next she was standing at the stranger's table, looking into eyes haunted with an emotion she found unsettling.

  Aradia squeezed the taut arm beneath her hand. It was bare, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and she wished there for no restriction between her palm and the wiry black hair curled on his dark flesh. She ached to be familiar with the feel of that strong arm, knowing it would rival the strength in another she had known so long ago.

  For a moment, Jaelan stared into her gaze, then slowly pulled his arm from the light grip. "I'm not interested, wench. If you need a man before sealing your fate with the Sisterhood, I'm sure Jubil can provide one." He turned his face to stare across the room, dismissing her.