The Lone Warrior

by Denise Rossetti

  She could barely croak. “Where—?”

  “Talkin’ t’ Deiter. An’ guess what?” He leaned forward, his eyes sparkling. “There’s Technomages comin’. A flitter came wit’ a message for t’ baron.”

  “Huh.” Mehcredi fell back toward sleep, not caring. The dog jumped onto the bed, turned three circles and settled down with his head draped across her shins. People spoke nearby, a door slammed. She smelled the familiar odors of old stone and tapestries and ashes. She was still at Lonefell then.

  And Walker? As she relaxed, a slow certainty swam into her soul. She didn’t know how she knew or why, only that she did.

  “You’re wrong.” She spoke without opening her eyes. “Not talking, he’s sleeping. So . . . tired . . .” Then she settled back into the darkness as though it were a fine feather bed and slept without dreams.

  When she woke again, there was no sign of the dog. Prue McGuire sat in a window seat frowning down at a portable writing desk. One forefinger was stained with ink, a smear of it on her determined little chin.

  Mehcredi cleared her throat. Prue set the writing desk aside with a muffled exclamation and bounced to her feet. Merciful Sister, was that a smile?

  “Here.” The other woman offered a cup with a straw. The water slid down Mehcredi’s throat, cool and welcome.

  Surely she should be dead? Mehcredi struggled to sit up, Prue’s arm sliding behind her, helping. So should Walker. Her brow furrowed. In fact, she could swear she could feel his body warmth, sense his masculine vitality. Which was comforting and profoundly unsettling, all at once.

  “What . . . happened?”

  “In brief?” Prue raised a brow. “Let’s see. The idiot dog got trapped outside. The idiot boy went after the dog. You went after the boy and Walker went after you. Which makes you all idiots.”

  “Know . . . that. Then?”

  “Gray and Shad hid the boy and the dog in the shadows, while Walker fought off the djinns.” Prue frowned. “But you were hit.” She laid a cool hand against Mehcredi’s forehead, took her pulse in a businesslike kind of way. “How do you feel?”

  “Tired.” Mehcredi took stock. “Bruised. Hungry. Alive.” She stared at Prue, shocked. “I don’t understand.”

  The other woman shrugged. “No one does. Walker did some kind of Magick to save you, but he won’t talk about it.” She hesitated. “He’s spent hours sitting with you. Did you know?”

  “No.” Mehcredi closed her eyes. Grief tugged at her senses, raw aching regret. “Who’s dead?” she asked. “Deiter?”

  “What? No, not Deiter.” Prue’s vivid little face lost some of its color. “Turns out one of the scullery maids thought she’d sneak out in the confusion and hide some silverware in her room, which meant she opened the kitchen door. None of the staff survived, nor did the half dozen guards who went to help.” She rubbed her temple. “Not good, but we got off lightly this time. A total of fifteen wounded, three of them children.”

  Unable to speak, Mehcredi ventured to pat the other woman’s hand. Prue sniffed and gave a wobbly smile. “As for Deiter, he’s far too tough to kill, the old corpsebird. The Necromancer managed to stop his heart for a couple of minutes up there on the tower, but Cenda and Erik pried the bastard loose. The demon nearly got them half a dozen times.”

  Her throat moved. “It seemed like forever, the horrible green lights and the flames and the flows of air. I thought Erik was going to d-die. They were very b-brave.”

  “So were you,” Mehcredi said gently. “You had to watch.”

  Prue’s lips trembled, tears streaming down her face.

  At a complete loss, Mehcredi patted the small hand again. “Ah, shit,” sobbed Prue, folding in on herself. “Sorry—I—”

  Mehcredi blinked. What was she supposed to do now? She gave a mental shrug. Ah well, patting seemed to work. Gingerly, she stroked Prue’s back, murmuring nonsense, and after a wet five minutes, the other woman seemed to calm. She sat up, fumbling for a handkerchief.

  Walker was close by, Mehcredi was sure of it. Merciful Sister, how she longed to see him. Aloud, she said, “So we won then?”

  “Not even close.”

  “But they’re gone, the djinns?”

  “Oh yes, they passed over Lonefell and kept right on going, but the Necromancer and his demon got away.” Prue growled under her breath. “By the Sister, I did better with nothing but a shovel. And for all we know, the djinns are having a nice chilly rest cure in the ice. Wait ’til the little ones put themselves back together into one great big nasty djinn. That’ll be something to look forward to.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, oh. All we’ve got are the Necromancer’s lackeys—his guards and servants and a crazy old woman who says she’s a Technomage. And there’s a cook, but I think the baron wants him now.”

  Gingerly, Mehcredi pushed back the covers and swung her legs to the floor. “Whoops.” The room swam.

  “Steady.” Prue grabbed her arm.

  “I need to pee,” Mehcredi said plaintively. Her stomach growled. “And then . . . Is there lunch?”

  She waited all the following day, but Walker didn’t come.

  Prue stood with folded arms while the keep healer examined Mehcredi with brisk distaste. Drawing back, he shook his head. “I don’t understand,” he said, sounding personally offended. “It’s as if the . . . thing never touched her.”

  Mehcredi scowled. “I’m right here, you know.” She pulled her shirt up to show a pink pucker on the smooth creamy skin of her side. “And you’re wrong. I have a scar.”

  “Yes, well.” The man made for the door. “You’re perfectly healthy. I’ll tell the baron you wasted time I could have devoted to others.”

  Mehcredi showed her teeth. “He’ll be thrilled.”

  In the afternoon, she tracked Walker to the meadow beside the tarn. He was sitting on a rock, skimming stones across the dark surface of the water, remote and beautiful as ever. The wind teased the ends of his hair.

  Mehcredi sighed. Ah, hell. “What are you think—?”

  She broke off, staring, as Walker lifted haunted eyes to hers. Emotions poured off him, a turbulent flood of them, all tangled together in a dark boiling mass—anguish, guilt, grief, regret, a relief so profound it reached to the depths of the soul. She swayed, her senses reeling with the impact.

  A strong hand gripped her arm. “What are you doing out of bed?”

  Mehcredi blinked at him. “I’m fine,” she said absently. “Good as new. The healer said so. But what’s wrong with you?” Why on earth had she thought him difficult to read? Everything he felt was right there, except it was all a dreadful blur, the emotions so dark with pain they were indistinguishable from each other.

  Walker’s hand lifted to brush her cheek. “How did you survive it?”

  She smiled. “You were there. You did . . . whatever you did.” She slid her hand into the cool silk of his hair, stepped closer. “Thank you for my life.”

  “Not that.” His arms banded around her, though she didn’t think he was aware of what he did. “I meant your childhood. I saw—Gods, I thought I knew, but I had no idea.”

  In an instinctive desire to soothe, she smoothed a thumb over his eyebrow. “Don’t worry about it. I never knew any different.” Raising her chin, she brushed her lips over his, teased the corner of his mouth with the tip of her tongue. “Until I met you.” She breathed the words into his mouth.

  “That’s the point.” He grabbed her wrists. “You didn’t know anything at all,” he snarled, the words so raw they sounded as if they’d been ripped bleeding from his heart.

  Thrusting her away from him, he turned his head away to stare across the tarn. “We need to talk,” he said to the mountain peaks in the distance. His breath puffed in the chilly air.

  Mehcredi’s belly fluttered with apprehension. “Sounds serious.” She tried to chuckle, but it came out all wrong. “Will you teach me to skim stones? I’ve never been any good at it.”

  “No,”
he said flatly. “I won’t teach you anything, ever again. Showing you the nea-kata was wrong, taking you to Trinitaria was wrong. As for the rest of it—’Cestors forgive me.”

  Picking up a rounded pebble, he threw it with a vicious flick of the wrist. Numb with shock, Mehcredi watched it skip ten, twelve times before it sank. The cold dark water closed over it without a trace—as if it had never been.

  “You—” She wet her lips. “You regret . . . what we did?”

  His face was implacable, but the emotions seething beneath the surface sliced into her like razors. If only she could untangle them, work out what was wrong, but the sensations were too overwhelming. She floundered.

  “I failed you, Mehcredi, abused your trust.”

  “What?” She set her hands on her hips. “How?”

  Walker’s lip curled. “Because your need, your godsbedamned innocence, tempted me beyond endurance.” He shrugged. “I’m just a man, more arrogant and stupid than most.”

  Her hands curled into fists. “Then I’m the one who’s stupid because I still don’t understand.”

  “You said you loved me. I thought I knew why—a degree of infatuation was inevitable.” His face darkened with self-derision. “Such wide-eyed admiration. I suppose I was flattered. But at least I was honest with you. I knew it would wear off after a time. I’ve been waiting for it.” His throat moved as he swallowed. “And then I saw your life.”

  He turned to face her, deep creases bracketing his mouth. “Mehcredi, you haven’t had a life. No kindness, no touching, no love. Nothing human, nothing real.”

  When she would have spoken, he held up a hand. “No, I saw it. I know. You’re like a brand-new garden, the soil prepared, full of untapped riches. Ready to grow, to become something wonderful and good. And of all the men in the godsbedamned world, I’m the first to treat you with any kind of consideration, the first to touch you as a woman should be touched.” His voice dropped. “Look at yourself, Mehcredi. I made you.”

  “Nonsense,” she managed. “Walker, I am what I am. I always have been.”

  “You are not!” His shout echoed across the still water. “You think you haven’t changed? That being with me hasn’t made you different?”

  The weight of his anguish made her stagger a little, her boots crunching on the pebbled beach. Gripping her hands together, she said, “Well, yes. You’ve given me so much, I can never thank—”

  He loomed over her. “What I have done,” he said, biting off each syllable, “is fuck you over.” His lips twisted. “In every possible sense of the word.” His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “It gets better too. Do you have any idea what I had to do to save you?”

  She struggled to keep up. “No, but I want to know.”

  Walker gripped her chin with merciless fingers, his eyes boring into hers, blacker than midnight. “I left you a part of my soul, my Magick, wrapped around the djinn stone. It was the only way I could stop it moving, heal the damage.”

  His lips pulled back from his teeth. “An unexpected gift, hmm? Like the Mark. And you thought that was bad enough. We’re bound, Mehcredi. Soul-linked at a basic level.”

  “W-what?”

  “You heard. You wanted me? Well, you got me. And vice versa.” He glared. “You’ll never need to ask what I’m thinking again. Fucking ironic, isn’t it?”

  “I—I—” Dark spots danced in her vision, cold sweat springing up on her forehead.

  A muffled curse, and hard hands forced her down on a rock, pressing her head between her knees. The light-headedness receded and terror rushed in to replace it. She sat up.

  “You can read my mind?” She must be goggling.

  “No,” he said at once. “No more than you can read mine. But I can sense what you feel.” His lips curved in a mirthless smile. “I’ve done a few experiments, distance lessens the effect. Out of sight, out of mind, so to speak.”

  Shock had made her brain foggy and slow. Mehcredi fumbled her way back over the whole unbelievable conversation, seizing on the thing that mattered most.

  “You don’t w-want me?” she said, not caring that she sounded like a child. “I thought you—”

  “You thought wrong.” Walker ran a hand through his hair. More softly, he said, “Look, Mehcredi, I told you once I believe in you. I still do. You’re strong, you’re beautiful.” For the first time, weary humor lightened his expression. “Some would say you have your own unique charm.”

  “Then why—?”

  “Think about it.” The pain and anger had returned, stronger than ever, washing over her in a dark wave. Beneath, she had the sense of an iron resolve. “Can’t you work it out for yourself? Why would a man like me want a woman—no a girl—like you? You’re a blank canvas, an unwritten page. You know so little you fell for the first man to offer you more than his fists and his cock. And now, you’re linked to me by Magick, regardless of what you actually want. I took that choice from you.”

  He turned his back. “Well, I won’t have it. My life is complicated enough, assassin. I don’t need an encumbrance. You’re free. Consider your penance over, well and truly.”

  “But—” Mehcredi locked her knees. If there was one thing Lonefell had taught her, it was that life plodded on, the heart beat regardless of misery and pain. It was remarkable what the human spirit could endure. “You told the baron I belonged.” Her voice was remarkably steady, all things considered. “With you.”

  Pebbles scattered as he spun around. “No, I didn’t. I said you were brave and good. I said I would defend you to my last breath.” His laugh lingered in the air, brief and bitter. “Which I did, ’Cestors save me.”

  The world had gone dark, anguish buffeting her with a demon’s wings. Half-wit, sneered a cold voice. Look what ye’ve done now.

  She couldn’t think straight, couldn’t think at all, but for some reason, it was imperative he didn’t see her crumble. And she wasn’t a half-wit. She’d learned so much, about life and death, about the difference between fucking and making love—about herself. Mehcredi of Lonefell mattered.

  “Yes, you do,” he said and she started, realizing she must have spoken aloud. “Which is why I am not for you.”

  She raised her chin. “Don’t you dare say it’s for my own good.”

  He gave a wry smile. “Give me some credit.”

  “Right then.” Her fingernails cut into her palms. What was she supposed to do now? How did one accept such a comprehensive dismissal with any degree of grace? Well, fuck it, she’d do it her way, the only way she knew.

  Boldly, she gazed into those hooded eyes. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

  Before she could lose her nerve, she took a single step forward and pressed her lips to his. “Thank you for my life,” she said against his mouth.

  For a second, Walker’s body went completely rigid. Then his hands closed over her upper arms like manacles and he ground his mouth over hers, so hard their teeth clinked and she tasted blood, with no idea of whether it was hers or his.

  Just as abruptly, he released her. His long braid flying, he whirled about, stretching out a hand to lean against a tall boulder. “Go now,” he said softly. “It’s over.”

  A short pause and Mehcredi’s steps receded, crunching over the stony little beach. Walker kept his eyes fixed on the waters of the tarn. He wouldn’t last more than a few moments in the freezing depths. The godsbedamned thing looked like it went down all the way to the roots of the mountains. He’d wager Lonefell tarn refused to give up the bodies it stole.

  He’d been wounded many times, he knew the sensations well—the surprise and disbelief, followed by the bright bite of pain, nausea and light-headedness when it was very bad. If it wasn’t ridiculous, he’d swear he was in shock now.

  He rubbed the heel of his hand over his chest. Distance did lessen the effect, that was true. Even now, as she neared the keep, her pain had faded to a nasty spike behind his breastbone. Infinitely better. Close-up, the full impact of her desolati
on had combined with his own agony of mind, threatening to unman him completely. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d shed a tear. Bleakly, he wondered if he could manage it now. It might be a comfort of sorts.

  He hadn’t lied, but he hadn’t told her the whole of it either. Because the soul-link was a little different for him. A shiver of primitive fear raised all the small hairs on his body. He’d given a part of his soul, his Song, into another’s keeping. What would he be without it? Without her?

  Whatever she thought she felt for him, it couldn’t be real, though she certainly believed in it. He couldn’t trust it and he wouldn’t let her either. The pain was real enough though, first love always hurt. Fuck, he should know—he was experiencing it. Walker ground his teeth together, the irony nearly choking him. Under his feet, the earth gave a long shiver, like an animal emerging from winter sleep. The water in the tarn heaved and slopped over the beach, wetting the toe of his boot.

  He caught his breath, startled. By the seven million Songs, he hadn’t lost control like that since he was a boy intoxicated by Magick for the first time. He needed to get a grip, focus on the woman who might—just might—be his kin. With an effort of will, he forced himself to start the calculations in his head—supplies for say, two nights on the road, maybe three, feed for his horse. Actually, it would be better if he could buy a second mount from the baron. He’d switch horses, snatch a few hours’ sleep here and there, and get to Holdercroft all the faster. He sighed.

  Damn Deiter to the icy hells. What were the chances she was Shar? Infinitesimal. But one day he’d face his Ancestors. He couldn’t die not knowing. After he’d seen her, he’d be able to stamp out the godsbedamned persistent flicker of hope. Then, ah, then . . . He’d go home to his House of Swords, to the peace of his garden and the rest of his empty life.

  At first he thought the strange vibration in the air was the tarn shifting, still settling back into its stony bed. Then he looked up. A winged shape skimmed over Blay Pass, lights flashing on its underside. The Technomages, right on cue.

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