The Lone Warrior

by Denise Rossetti

  Rhio came forward from behind the bar. “Walker!” He grinned, pounding Walker on the back.

  “How’s Amae?” asked Walker, sidestepping.

  “Fine.” If anything, the grin widened. “Go on back and surprise her. She’s in the parlor.”

  She was sitting in the big chair, smiling down at a little bundle wrapped in a light blanket. As he watched, the bundle heaved, squeaking like an angry kitten. A tiny pink fist waved, the fingers spread wide like an open flower.

  Walker’s mouth fell open.

  “Welderyn!” Joy lit Amae’s face. She leaned forward, stretching out a hand. “What are you doing here? We only sent the letter yesterday.”

  “I left early. Thought I’d get here in plenty of time,” he said stupidly. “But you’ve had . . . it? The baby?”

  Amae folded back the blanket to reveal a small pink face crowned with an absurd tuft of black hair. “Her,” she said. “Your niece is nothing if not impatient.”

  Walker fell to his knees beside the chair. “Gods, is she all right? She’s so small.” The baby’s whole head was about the size of his fist. With a shaking hand, he touched her cheek. Immediately, she turned, seeking, the rosebud mouth opening wide. The thin insistent squalls started up again.

  “She’s healthy?” Sudden terror seized him. “Amae, what about you? Was it very bad?”

  “Oh, yes,” said his sister serenely. “But I had people to help me.” She looked up. “And Rhio was very brave. Weren’t you, carazadi?”

  Rhio smiled tiredly from the doorway. “Aye, love, that I was. Didn’t pass out once.” He walked forward. “She’s beautiful,” he murmured, his hand coming to rest lightly on Amae’s dark head and Walker couldn’t be sure if he referred to either or both of his females.

  Awed, Walker stared down at the fussing baby. His eyes stung. A miracle, a true gift of the gods. “Can I see?” Gingerly, he parted the blanket.

  The infant grasped his forefinger with surprising strength and the mewling trailed off into silence. Slate dark eyes locked on his, the baby’s brow creasing with an expression of fierce concentration as if the secrets of the world were graven on his features. Walker froze.

  The ch’qui coursed through his finger and up his arm, tingling beneath the skin, but nothing like the powerful surge he was used to. Instead, it scampered, like the lightest of footsteps, joyous and carefree. Trapped in the baby’s cloudy purposeful gaze, Walker’s breath hitched.

  “What’s her name?” he heard himself ask, as if from very far away.

  “We thought . . . Gwin,” said Amae, her voice cracking. It had been their mother’s name. “Gwin’d’haraleen’t’Rhiomard’t’Lenquisquilirian.”

  “Yes,” he said absently. Welcome to the world, little one, he thought. When the time is right, come to me and I will teach you all you need to know of the Magick the gods have given you.

  Gwin blinked, her mouth opening on a heartbreaking wail. Released, Walker sat back on his heels.

  Amae put the baby to the breast, hissing as Gwin fastened on and began to suck. “She might have come early,” she said through gritted teeth, “but she’s as fierce as any warrior.” Gradually, she relaxed. “Perfect.”

  “You look a bit rattled,” said Rhio. “Want a drink?”

  When Walker shook his head, Amae chuckled. “Go talk to the cedderwood in the garden, brother mine,” she said. “That should put you to rights.”

  “Amae, do you think—?” Rhio broke off, frowning.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” said Amae firmly. “Go on, Welderyn. At least until your room is ready.”

  A few moments of solitude sounded good. “I’ll start on Gwin’s Song.” He touched Rhio’s shoulder as he passed. “Congratulations, my brother. You’re a lucky man.”

  Walker brushed by before Rhio could collect himself sufficiently to respond. Stepping out of the tavern’s back door, he took a deep breath of sweet summer-scented air. Amae was right, the cedderwood was a magnificent specimen, so ancient its gnarled trunk was broader than his arms’ span.

  A little dog trotted out from behind the stable and lifted its leg against a ticklewhisker bush.

  The soul-link burst into life, filling his chest with delightful warmth. Walker stopped dead. No, it couldn’t be—But the aching void he’d carried all the long lonely months was gone as if it had never been. Every nerve and cell tingled with the return of sensation, painful and wonderful all at once.

  “W-Walker?”

  Mehcredi stepped out from behind the cedderwood. The shaft of longing was so piercing, it nearly doubled him up. Grimly, he held himself steady, trying not to stare. Gods, she’d grown into herself, into her true beauty, settled in her skin like a warrior goddess. She wore the familiar shirt and trews, a short sword at her hip, but her hair fell in soft platinum waves almost to her shoulders and her ivory skin was flushed gold from the sun. As she walked slowly toward him, every muscle in that strong female body moved with the supple prowling grace only bestowed by perfect health.

  She was Shiloh in the desert and he was thirsty unto death.

  “Welderyn’d’haraleen’t’Lenquisquilirian,” she said in perfect Shar. She tilted her head, her silver eyes steady on his. “You swore you would not run, carazadi.”

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  Walker wet his lips. “What are you doing here?” Carazadi? His brain spun. “Shar? You speak Shar now?”

  Mehcredi favored him with a sunny smile, though her lips trembled with the effort. “I came back from Ged with the Lammas boys. It’s been months now. And Amae taught me a few words.”

  He couldn’t drag his eyes from the carnal glory of that lower lip, so pink and plump. He wanted to take it gently in his teeth, worry at it and kiss it better.

  “Why?”

  “I knew you would come,” she said simply.

  A strand of hair blew into his eye and he pushed it back with an impatient hand. “Godsdammit, you were supposed to learn, to grow.”

  Mehcredi’s chin went up. “I’ve been working with Ma Griddle.” Her face blazed with excitement and pride. “She’s the healer here—and the apothecary too, because Holdercroft’s only a village after all—and she says I’m doing very well, especially with the potions. I can read and write now—well, a little. Enough for the labels anyway, which is good because you have to be so careful not to—”

  “Mehcredi.” Walker gripped his fists together behind his back lest he grab her and shake the answers loose. “A man.” He gritted his teeth. “Did you find a decent man?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  A giant hand gripped his chest and squeezed so hard he could barely breathe. “Good,” he managed. “Who?”

  Instead, she frowned. “Walker, you look terrible.” She moved close enough to touch, so close he could smell the light perfume that rose from her skin and detect the female warmth beneath it.

  “Your hair’s got more gray in it now. Did you know? Just here.”

  Her fingertips fluttered over his temple, the touch bittersweet. Memory took him between one breath and the next. Because she’d touched him like this before. What had he said in his cold fury, a lifetime ago? You are not my servant, nor my student. You are not my friend. Nor will you be, ever. He winced.

  “Are you all right?” Her brow furrowed with concern. “Have you been ill?”

  Fuck, this was torture.

  He gripped her wrist. “Who is it?”

  Every vestige of softness died out of Mehcredi’s face. “You know,” she said. “You’ve always known.” She stepped right into his arms, the tips of her breasts brushing his chest. “You, Walker.” Her smile went crooked. “It’s only ever been you.”

  Hope stripped him to the bone. He cupped her cheek in his hand, dimly aware he was shaking like a tree in a gale. “I left—” His throat was so dry. “A piece of my soul, my Magick, inside you. It could be you don’t have a choice.”

  Her brows rose. “You mean this?” Fishing in her shirt, she produced a fine silver chain. Suspen
ded from it was a small pearly globe encased in a network of fine wires.

  “The itching drove me crazy for about a week, but thank the Sister, it worked its way out of the wound while I was in Ged. Didn’t take long to heal either, though it bled a fair bit. I was going to throw it away and then I realized . . .”

  Stroking a finger over the smooth opalescent surface, she glanced up from under her lashes. “This is your gift to me, freely given. Your life, your love. The most precious thing I’ll ever have.”

  Walker closed his fingers over hers. “Be sure, Mehcredi. Be very sure.” The words came out so raw and desperate he sounded like a stranger. “I can’t do this again.”

  He watched her searching for words, his heartbeat thudding in his ears like a battle drum.

  “No,” she said at last, and his pulse jolted, hard and nasty. “Let me show you.” Taking his hand, she drew him toward a rough bench in the shade of the cedderwood. “Sit down.”

  “Mehcredi—”

  “I’m getting there. Just give me a minute, all right?” Her breasts rose and fell as if she’d been running. She wiped her forehead with one sleeve. “I’ve been practicing.

  “Gods. Right. Don’t laugh.” Pulling in a huge breath, she clasped her hands before her at the waist like a little girl and opened her mouth.

  “Welderyn’d’haraleen’t’Lenquisquilirian, babe twice blessed with life and love,” she sang in Shar, the notes breathy but true, the accent impeccable.

  He’d never felt less like laughing. ’Cestors’ bones, it was his Song she sang. How was that even possible?

  “First Mother’s breath to sing his Song, First Father’s touch on his downy head.”

  She was midway through the next line by the time he’d recovered enough to speak. “Wait. Do you understand the words or did you learn the sounds by rote?”

  Mehcredi sent him a long level look, implicit with a woman’s challenge. His blood bubbled. “Judge for yourself.”

  Her voice rose again, soft and pure in the light summer air.

  “Welderyn’d’haraleen’t’Lenquisquilirian, last of the Shar, dealing death, swift hands, cold heart.”

  This was new, the lines unknown. Gods, had she—? No, surely not. Not possible. The strain was beginning to tell, the consonants slurring, yet the way she emphasized certain words, the emotion on her expressive face . . . She understood the import of every syllable.

  “Yet his soul he gave me, never counting the cost. True son of the’Cestors, First Father’s courage, First Mother’s heart.”

  Her voice wavered, dropping so he could hardly hear it. Desperate, he leaned forward.

  “Mehcredi’s beloved, two Songs twined like vine and tree, through all the years, ’til we lie as one in starfire’s heart.”

  Completely incapable of speech, Walker grasped her hips, pulling her close and pressing his forehead into the resilient softness of her breasts. Tentatively at first, then with more assurance, Mehcredi’s fingers stroked the length of his thick braid, picking at the ties that bound it, separating the strands, spreading it over his back and shoulders.

  She sighed, letting it ripple through her fingers like water. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

  Walker filled his hands with the firmness of her backside and let out a long breath. “Any time,” he said. “Come here.” He tugged her down into his lap, wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck. There’d be time for kisses later, but right now, he was so rattled, all he could cope with was to hold her and never let her go.

  The canopy of the cedderwood rustled overhead, fragments of shade shifting over her bright head, as light and loving as First Mother’s gentle touch.

  At last, Walker stirred. “You are without doubt the most amazing woman I have ever met. How did you do it?”

  As she shifted, the pearl between her breasts rolled, glistening a delicate pink. “Amae tutored me.” Smiling, she nuzzled the curve of his brow with her nose, drew back. “I’ve done nothing but work since I last saw you. You’re going to be so proud of me, Walker.”

  His chuckle sounded rusty, disused. He cleared his throat. “Carazada , I already am.” He considered for a moment. “I think I have been, for a very long time.”

  “Carazada.” Mehcredi’s lashes fluttered down, her lips trembling into a sweet knowing curve that was all woman. “I asked Amae what it means.”

  She turned her head, brushed her lips over one corner of his mouth and whispered, “Beloved, heart of my hearts, my world, my all. Mine.” The huskiness of her tone, the pure temptation of her, coiled at the base of his spine, rippled over his balls. The point of her tongue crept out, asking for entry.

  The soul-link bloomed with warmth and color and life, the energy of it pounding through him, blood and bone. With a deep growl of pleasure, Walker took over the kiss, hauling her into him and sinking into her mouth. Mehcredi met him stroke for stroke, humming deep in her throat, fingers tangled deep in his hair. She took his senses by storm, more intoxicating than the attar of his own dark roses.

  Fabric ripped. Deliciously heavy and full, her breasts filled his hands, the stiff nipple burning into the center of his palms. Mehcredi made a breathless wanton sound, a delightful cross between a mewl and a wail. It went to his head like richest spicewine ’til he could barely breathe with the need to hear it again, to hear her scream in passion, his name spilling from her lips as she hit the peak and tumbled over.

  He forced his eyes open. She was sprawled across him, her lips swollen, her thighs spread wide in a shameless display. Immediately, he clamped his hands on her hips, pulling her forward, notching his aching cock where it longed to go. Even through the trews, she scorched him. His groan split the air.

  His shirt was hanging open. When had that happened? Mehcredi leaned forward, her breath scorching against his skin. She bit him, just above the nipple.

  “Fuck!” Walker bucked. He knew there was a reason he couldn’t throw her to the grass, rip her trews off and sink balls deep into the wet heat he craved, but he was having difficulty remembering what it was.

  “Room.” Mehcredi nipped his earlobe. “Upstairs.” Her voice sank to a tortured whisper. “P-please.”

  He’d never felt such desperate urgency, not even in his adolescence. It took every scrap of warrior discipline he possessed to draw back. As he stared into his assassin’s beautiful face, her pupils flared dark, almost eclipsing the pale irises. The creamy skin of her throat and cheeks flushed with gorgeous color.

  “Yes.” He cradled her cheek, his thumb tracing over her lower lip. “Ah, carazada, this is going to take a very long time.” Gently, he helped her to her feet, rose and took her hand. “Hard and fast. Long and slow.” Walking was a matter of breathing deep and taking care. He led her toward the tavern. “And everything in between.”

  At the whimper she couldn’t repress, he chuckled, feeling lighter than he had in years, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders—a burden he hadn’t known he carried.

  “In there.” Pausing at the top of the stairs, she pointed to a chamber at the back of the building. The inn drowsed in the warmth of the afternoon, business virtually nonexistent. ’Cestors be thanked, because the gods knew what they looked like, flushed and disheveled.

  The moment the door closed behind them, Mehcredi dropped the bar across and set her back to it. “I want it all, for always. With you. Is that what you want too?” She fixed him with a serious silver gaze. “You know you have to tell me what you’re thinking.”

  Mehcredi couldn’t take her eyes from him. Walker gazed at her in silence, his hair falling across his forehead, his eyes the rich rare brown of chocolat. His shirt hung open, exposing a slice of smooth bronze chest, the dark crescent of one nipple. Helplessly, her gaze flickered down to the magnificent bulge in his trews and her breath hitched. From her fingertips to her aching nipples to the swollen liquid folds between her thighs, she throbbed and tingled, her skin too tight for her body.

  Slowly,
Walker’s firmly cut lips curved into a smile, the tenderness warming his eyes beautifully, wonderfully, clear. “What does the soul-link say?”

  Holy Sister, she’d been so caught up in him, she’d forgotten all about it. The moment she turned her attention inward, the floodgates opened. A great warm rush of love and tears and lust swept her away, tossing her this way and that, bearing her higher and higher, deeper and deeper.

  “Gods!” She yelped with shock, reeling, her arms flying out in an instinctive grab for balance.

  Strong arms banded around her. She was drawn up against the unyielding heat of his broad chest.

  “I’m here,” rumbled a deep voice in her ear. “I will never let you go.” The grip tightened until her ribs creaked. “I love you, Mehcredi.”

  Oh, gods, it was true. Submerged in the soul-link, fathoms deep, she could see him with absolute clarity, immovable as the solid earth that gave him his Magick, steadfast as the ancient cedderwood in the yard. His soul was shot through with the exhilarating energy of the ch’qui, yes, but beneath it all lay the bedrock of him, so plain, so honest, it owed nothing to Magick—only to a great and giving heart.

  What he gave her was the whole world, newly minted. She might stumble and fall as she explored it, but what he offered too was all of himself, a refuge that was hers and hers alone. Joy made her lighter than air. Laughing, she gathered up the love and the pleasure, magnified it and pushed it back at him through the link. Coherent thought was no longer possible, her mind had dissolved into a coruscating rainbow that danced and sang, Yes, yes, yes ! with every beat of her heart.

  Still bubbling, Mehcredi clung as the world shifted around her. Peripherally, she was aware of being lowered to the bed, of cooler air washing over her bare legs. Gladly, she spread, opening herself as Walker came down over her, his muscled flesh searingly hot and strong against hers. He murmured in Shar, the words so quick she couldn’t catch them, but the link gave her the sense.

  She was his—his life, his future, his carazada. And he’d die if he couldn’t join his flesh with hers—right—now.