The Lone Warrior

by Denise Rossetti

  He’d chosen a nea-kata from the twenty-second level because he needed the lethal beauty of razor-sharp blades to concentrate his mind. The Purist might be the most powerful wizard Walker had ever known, but he could damn well wait.

  Ten minutes later, he laid the two swords aside, his blood humming as it should, all his senses alert. “Well?” he said. “What is it?”

  “We have them back.” Deiter twinkled up at him. “Erik and Prue.”

  Walker stared. “Why the hell didn’t you say so in the first place?” He reached for the shirt he’d hooked on a branch.

  “You were busy,” said the old wizard blandly, his eyes wandering over Walker’s bare chest. He sighed. “I used to have a body like that.”

  Meeting a flat black gaze, he hurried on. “Yes, well. Prue’s fine, more or less. Erik . . .” He shrugged. “He took on more than he was ready for, the fool. The Necromancer—” Deiter broke off to spit, right into Walker’s prized bed of dark roses. “Bastard nearly did for him. Bartelm saved his life in the proverbial nick of time.” His mouth twisted amid the wine-stained whiskers. “Pompous git’s still going on about it.”

  He didn’t lack for guts, Erik Thorensen. “And the Necromancer?”

  “Gone. Maybe dead, maybe not.” He raised faded eyes to Walker’s. “I need more information. Give me the assassin.”

  “No.”

  Bushy brows rose. “Why not?”

  “She’s mine.”

  Deiter gave a dirty chuckle. “I see.”

  “I doubt it.” With steady hands, Walker took the soft cloth he’d hung on a bush and wiped down the first sword. His shamanic senses vibrated with the power of the old man’s Magick. “I told you everything I got out of her when I came to The Garden. Before dawn, I might add. Remember?”

  “So?”

  “She was too terrified to lie. I’m not even sure she knows how.” He repressed the urge to growl. “I know you, Purist. You’re frustrated. You want to play.”

  “What’s wrong with a little screaming? I wouldn’t overdo it, I swear. Think of poor Dai.”

  “I am. She’s going to be his body slave, his nurse, for as long as he needs it. Longer, if I see fit.”

  Deiter stopped fidgeting. With exquisite care, Walker rubbed the second blade until it gleamed, watching the old man’s hands out of the corner of his eye. You never knew with wizards.

  At last, Deiter said, “You owe me for this, Walker. And lest you think I’m too senile to remember, let me say I know what you are. What you could be. I’ve known from the instant I clapped eyes on you.”

  Walker said nothing.

  With a muttered curse, the wizard rose, one hand pressed to the small of his back. He glanced toward the canal and the water stair, then back at Walker. “I’ll be at The Garden if you change your mind.” The twinkle had returned.

  “About what?”

  “You. The assassin.” A snaggletoothed grin. “Especially the assassin.”

  Walker watched him hobble across the grass and onto the path. “Not likely,” he murmured under his breath. “Gods, you’d ruin her.”

  By the time he realized how odd that sounded, Deiter was out of earshot.

  4

  Mehcredi stood trembling in the passage outside Dai’s door. Twice, she lifted her hand to the latch. Twice, she let it fall to her side. The tray she carried tilted, plates and cups skittering about as if to taunt her with her own stupidity. Serafina the housekeeper would skin her alive if she dropped Dai’s lunch.

  For some godsbedamned reason, her entire body went into revolt every time she tried to force herself over the threshold. She’d managed it so far, ten days in a row, but the effect seemed to be cumulative. Her head swam and her heart pounded. Sister, if she didn’t get hold of herself, she’d faint! She swallowed, breathing hard through her nose, willing the weakness away.

  It could be lack of food, she thought darkly. The meals were probably nourishing enough, but hell, she’d never cared for vegetables. Complaining to Walker was a waste of breath. He ignored her.

  Serafina had said waspishly, “Nothin’ wrong with good, plain vittles. Yer ladyship’s gettin’ the same as everyone else.” When Mehcredi explained she wasn’t any kind of nobility, Serafina glared down her sharp nose in silence. Then she pointed an imperious finger at a sink full of crusted pots and hot soapy water.

  Mehcredi’s stomach grumbled. It had to be part of the torture—the swordmaster intended to starve her until his revenge was complete. Unless, of course, Dai found a way to kill her from flat on his back or Serafina worked her to death.

  Morosely, she wiped a sweaty palm on the simple shift she wore. It was modest enough, resembling a large linen sack that hung to below her knees, but already limp and grubby. She’d been up since dawn, first in the kitchen, then in the laundry. Even her blisters had blisters. She’d spent her childhood trying to keep out of the way, but it was no use in Walker’s House of Swords. The premises were small compared with a rambling keep, and anyway, Serafina seemed to have more than the usual complement of senses. The bloody woman was a witch.

  Mehcredi scowled. If Dai refused his lunch, the housekeeper would have her up beyond midnight, scrubbing floors with a nailbrush or something.

  It had been a week before the swordsman could produce more than thin, mewling noises, let alone rise from his bed, but by the third day, Mehcredi knew his body as well as she knew her own. His smooth, muscled limbs left her unmoved, though a part of her knew he was beautiful. On the fourth day, he ripped the sponge from her grasp with a silent snarl and pointed to the door. Even a great daft lump could work out what that meant. Get out, bitch, and give me my privacy.

  His mind she knew not at all, though he followed her always with his eyes as she lumbered about in sullen silence, scrubbing, sweeping, polishing. The bright unblinking focus unnerved her almost as much as Walker’s grim silent presence.

  If it weren’t for the godsbedamned Mark . . .

  She’d tested its power to the absolute limits of her endurance. Four times, she nerved herself to walk through that damned gate and four times, she’d known beyond a shadow of a doubt her heart would explode in a messy shower if she took another step. After the last attempt, late one night, she’d had to retire to her tiny attic room, shaking so hard she stopped twice to rest on the stairs. Gods, no more. Walker had said the Mark would also prevent her from harming Dai. Not that she particularly wanted to, though the man’s silent hate-filled stare made her guts cramp. She blew out a gusty breath. With any luck, he’d eaten some of his breakfast.

  Before she could lose her nerve, Mehcredi shouldered Dai’s door open.

  The bed was empty. The swordsman stood with his back turned, hunched over something he held cradled against his chest. He rocked back and forth on his heels.

  “Dai?” she whispered. “Dai, are you—?”

  His head jerked up and he whirled around so suddenly he nearly pitched over. At the last second, he grabbed the edge of the dresser with one hand; in the other he clutched the neck of a small stringed instrument. His eyes were red-rimmed, his cheeks wet.

  Dai’s mouth contorted, but only an agonized gargle emerged. A second later, he launched himself forward, reaching for her with clawed fingers, snarling, barely human. The instrument fell unheeded to the floor.

  Mehcredi dropped the tray so she could shield her face. Despite his current weakness, Dai was nonetheless male to her female and a master swordsman at the peak of his powers. She had no hope of evading the blow, but at the last moment, he pulled it and what had started out as a punch capable of breaking her jaw became an open-handed slap that rattled her teeth.

  Mehcredi’s heel caught on the rug and she tripped, landing hard on her back, Dai following her down. Another slap had her seeing stars. Desperately, she gripped his wrist with one hand, her strength equal to his. “Shit! Stop it, stop it! Don’t—”

  Her flailing hand encountered an object with a jagged edge. A shard from a broken plate. Inst
inctively, she closed her fingers around it, but the moment she did so, a familiar iron fist closed over her heart and her vision grayed out.

  Gods, if she defended herself, she’d die. If she didn’t, Dai would kill her.

  Their legs thrashed, seeking purchase. Mehcredi kicked out, her foot connecting with something solid. Strings sang a jangled dissonance, accompanied by a decisive crunch, a kind of nasty counterpoint.

  Dai froze, poised above her, his chest heaving. The scarlet flush drained from his face, leaving him as pale as paper. Squeezing his eyes shut, he made a noise in his throat—the softest, most heartrending wail she’d ever heard. All the manic strength spilled out of him, his eyes rolled back and he slumped, rolling off Mehcredi to lie beside her on the rug.

  Their harsh breath echoed in the silence. Mehcredi uncurled her fingers and released the shard. She turned her head to gaze into Dai’s face. Even his lips were gray. They lay full length in the ruins of his lunch, as close as lovers.

  “Dai?” Gingerly, she patted his cheek, absently noting the scruff on his jaw. She’d offer to shave him, but he unsettled her so much, she’d never be able to keep her hands steady.

  His eyes fluttered open, focused on her face, and narrowed. She shifted away a few inches, then stopped, her heart thumping.

  His mouth opened. “Why?” No more than a thread of sound.

  “I told you,” she said, “I had a commiss—”

  Dai clamped callused fingers across her lips. He shook his head. Shut up.

  “Why . . . Do . . . You . . . Hate . . . Me?” Although he wrestled with each word as if it were a deadly foe, all that came out was a travesty of human speech, a scratchy, agonized rasp.

  Mehcredi’s throat closed in sympathy. “I don’t.” Unable to hold that burning gaze, she dropped her eyes and pushed the remains of a cup about with one finger. “I made a mistake, that’s all. The prettydeath was meant for Erik the Golden. I didn’t know—” For some reason, she had to break off and swallow hard. “I didn’t know how awful it was. How much it would hurt.”

  But Dai had stopped listening. Frowning, he was gathering up the pieces of the instrument, picking splinters out of the rug.

  “Here, I can do that.”

  When he curled his lip like a truculent dog and knocked her hand out of the way, she sat nonplussed. Now what? Was making conversation part of her duties? Sitting up, she worked her tender jaw. Ow, ow. She still had all her teeth, but she’d been fortunate, because clearly, Dai was feeling a great deal better.

  She shot him a doubtful glance, wondering if he was bored. She would be. “Um. Can you play it?”

  His brows shot up, so she guessed she’d surprised him somehow. Another glare and he levered himself carefully to his feet, swaying a little.

  Mehcredi sighed, knowing she’d missed something obvious. With her luck, next time he lost his temper, he’d be strong enough to kill her outright. Godsdammit, she had to work out what had set him off, and quickly. Her brain spinning, she rose and went to the dresser to mix a dose of the special medicine.

  “Here.” She held out the tumbler of polished wood.

  Dai sank to the side of the bed and swallowed the mixture, one painful sip at a time. Wincing, Mehcredi watched his throat bob.

  His throat . . . “You used to play. And sing. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  His features smoothing into a mask she couldn’t read, Dai shrugged. With a flick of his wrist, he flipped the empty tumbler in her general direction. She had to lunge sideways, but she managed to snag it before it hit the floor.

  Still deep in thought, she filled it with water from the jug and passed it back. “Like Erik?”

  His mouth tipped up at one corner. Was that a smile? He shook his head. No. He made a downward motion with one hand. Not as good. The hand descended to knee level. Nowhere near as good.

  A tiny spark of warmth bloomed behind Mehcredi’s breastbone. This was real communication, the give-and-take of conversation—sort of. “No wonder you were crying.”

  Dai froze, his jaw setting so hard she could see the hinge bones knot.

  Shit.

  “It’s all right. I would, anyone would.” She knew she was babbling, but something about his fisted hands and rigid shoulders yanked the words out of her. “I understand . . . At least, I think I do . . . About the pain, I mean, and not being able to talk.”

  In a smooth rush that reminded her of Walker, Dai surged up from the bed and seized her arm in a steely grip. Hauling her to the door, he thrust her out into the passageway with such force she stumbled three or four paces before she could regain her balance. The door slammed, so fiercely the walls vibrated. The ensuing silence rang in her ears, broken by a metallic click that sounded for all the world like a warrior arming a crossbow, but it was only Dai locking the door.

  Mehcredi leaned her forehead against the wall, cursing under her breath. Why did she even try? Ye great daft lump. She’d never understand, never get it right. Her head bowed, she trudged down the stairs.

  Dai hadn’t swallowed a thing, not one spoonful of his minced meat and vegetables. So there’d be no food for Mehcredi until supper time. Worse, how was she to tell Serafina about the broken plates, the wasted meal? That deserved a beating. She cringed at the thought, though only Walker had really laid hands on her. No one else at the House of Swords had tried to punish her with the pain she deserved, but surely it was just a question of time? It was all small cruelties, and though she’d been accustomed to them all her life, they’d never been so pointed, so piercing.

  In fact, violence would come as a relief. Whenever she had to pass through the salle, the men and women practicing with blunted swords stopped, lowered their weapons as one, and stared. Her skin prickling, she’d put her head down and trot past as quickly as possible. People jostled her in the passageways, on the stairs. Once, a small woman who looked like she was made of iron and whipcord caught her with a sly elbow to the midsection that nearly sent her reeling off the thirdfloor landing. If it hadn’t been for the grizzled veteran called Pounder, she might have broken her neck.

  His meaty hand had caught her upper arm and hauled her back to safety. Cold brown eyes under shaggy brows had raked her up and down. “Ye got work to do, lass?”

  Rubbing her arm, she’d nodded. “Yes, lots. I have to—”

  Pounder had turned on his heel and left her standing.

  Every night, she waited ’til after midnight before slinking out to the small bathhouse. It was worth losing sleep to soak in one of the deep stone tubs, though more than once she nearly slid right under the surface when she nodded off. There was a small cupboard filled with standard medical supplies too. She’d already worked her way through the best part of a jar of healall, slathering it over the purplish blotches marring the pale flesh of her throat. The gods knew what would happen if Serafina missed it.

  Bending to dry a leg, Mehcredi stared determinedly at her toes—anything to avoid a glimpse of the smooth white breast flesh he’d desecrated. Sister save her, a shaman’s Mark! She shivered, though it wasn’t with cold. The slightest touch still set off the strangest reaction, part burn, part tingle, part pain, part . . . something else. She hated it. The soft flesh would tighten almost unbearably—and not only on the Marked breast. The right side would draw up too, until both nipples had ruched up into pink velvety points, so sensitive she couldn’t stand even to brush them with her fingertips.

  Every time she passed Walker, in the cool passageways, in the garden, the salle, she felt compelled to stare at his hands, wondering. Like the rest of him, they were beautifully proportioned, strong and graceful. Ah gods, he’d touched her! Not casually, not violently, but with a deeper intimacy than she’d ever known. Wrapping her arms around herself, she hunched over, waiting it out, this unfamiliar rush of sensation. Behind her eyelids, she seemed to see the pads of his fingers creating the swirling patterns, slipping lightly, so very lightly, over warm resilient satin, never pausing, never doubting, a flowing stre
am of Magick caressing the outer layer of skin, sinking deep into the flesh beneath . . .

  Gods! Mehcredi twisted the thin towel so hard it creaked with the strain. Not that the swordmaster lowered himself to speak to her. His dark eyes might flick over her, but his expression never changed, not that she could discern, even though she’d made such a thorough study of his features they were graven on her soul. If she closed her eyes now, she could see him, standing by the bed looking down at Dai, a crease between his straight black brows.

  Oh yes, everyone in Walker’s House of Swords loved Dai. Without exception, they detested her for what she’d done to him. There wasn’t a single one of them, or in all of Caracole for that matter, who didn’t find the swordmaster’s forbearance as inexplicable as it was misguided. Or so Serafina informed her, as if Mehcredi were too stupid to work it out for herself, finishing with an emphatic sniff. But then she’d turn away, dabbing at her eyes with her apron, and Mehcredi came to think the housekeeper really did love Dai, like she said.

  On the whole, Lonefell might be preferable. And she couldn’t believe she’d had the thought.

  Sighing, Mehcredi obliterated all traces of her presence, wiping over the bath and hanging up her towel. How she loathed everything about bloody Walker’s Sister-forsaken House of Swords!

  Well, not everything.

  He was waiting for her in the quiet peace of the garden, sitting bolt upright on the bench near Walker’s rose beds.

  “Get down from there, you filthy little beast.”

  The Sister and the Brother shone high in the night sky. In the moonslight, she watched the shaggy head turn to glance at the greasy packet of scraps in her hand. Nimbly, he hopped down, tail waving in happy expectation. Mehcredi coughed. Not even the heady perfume of dark roses could mask the almost visible miasma of filthy canine.