In fear of that, she opened her eyes to look at her beloved, reassuring herself that he was safe. The day was growing lighter by the moment and she could see his face clearly now; the solemn brown eyes, the almost dimples, beautiful, beautiful lips. Don’t die, she wanted to say, yet knew it would be pointless. If there was one thing she’d learned from the experience of regaining her memories, it was that fate couldn’t be avoided. For better or for worse she was The Light and her child would have incredible power. These were facts she no longer denied. Yet the knowledge of this great power had impressed upon her the fragility of life — her life, her beloved’s.
‘They are gone,’ Pagan whispered, and Khatrene suddenly couldn’t hold her love in. Desperation welled up inside of her and she leant forward to kiss Talis, clutching the front of his jacket to pull him closer, wishing there was some way to halt the terrible forward momentum of her child’s destiny. But what began in desperation ended in tenderness as Talis eased away from her lips, slowly, reluctantly.
‘Will you two never leave off kissing,’ Pagan hissed. ‘We are in danger.’
‘And we are in love,’ Talis whispered, gazing at Khatrene with such understanding, such passion that she wanted to cry.
‘You are a changed man,’ Pagan observed softly. ‘If danger such as this excites you.’
Breehan, who had been gesturing for silence, now slapped Pagan hard on the arm, an expression of such frustration in his eyes that Khatrene feared for a moment that a fight would break out.
Yet instead of being angry Pagan merely looked at Breehan silently, noting that Noorinya’s memory stone now hung about his neck. Breehan stared back, then turned to his charges, gesturing for them to rise and prepare to march. Hanjeel, who held his baby brother, helped some of the smaller ones to rise, dusting them down and wiping away the odd tear.
Khatrene was taking a baby from one of the younger children who looked far too small to carry it when a distant sound was heard behind. A faraway clash. The unmistakable sound of swords meeting. Khatrene closed her eyes. People would die because of her — because of who she was and the life she carried inside her. Memories from her childhood offered a perspective on that. She was a Princess of Ennae and the instrument through which prophecy would be fulfilled. But Khatrene was also half Magorian, and that half of her could not accept the cost.
As though sensing her change of mood, Talis touched her face gently before sweeping one of the toddlers into his arms and nodding for Pagan to take another. None of the children whimpered, but the looks on their faces were frightened and sad. If only she’d refused to marry Djahr. Mihale would have let her stay in the Volcastle with him. She could have talked some sense into him, helped him rule, instead of abandoning him when he was so young and vulnerable.
HAD THE LIGHT NOT LAIN WITH THE DARK, THERE WOULD BE NO CHILD TO JOIN THE WORLDS.
That’s not true. I would have had children. Talis’s children.
THIS CHILD IS UNIQUE.
The baby stirred within her and she wondered if he too could hear the voice.
Are you telling me Djahr’s … involvement was important?
WITHOUT HIS SEED, THIS CHILD WOULD NOT BE.
So, all that I’ve been through, and all the suffering to come is necessary?
YES.
That makes a difference. But it wouldn’t change the outcome. The past had shown her that. The fate of Ennae was set. The child was already inside her and there was no turning back. Walking beside Talis, cradling another woman’s child in her arms, a woman who even now might be dying to save her, Khatrene knew the best she could hope for was to have the strength to fulfil her own destiny.
And ensure that her child lived to fulfil his.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Mihale glanced away from his Champion. These were petty matters that kept him from his bed.
‘Laroque must accompany us to the Shrine,’ Kert said. ‘The Ceremony of Atheyre requires a Guardian to open the way between the worlds, and Laroque is the only remaining —’
‘You think I do not know that?’ Mihale had indeed forgotten this fact and now he sought to hide his confusion from his Champion. Fear at his failings hovered over Mihale before he pushed it away.
Kert asked softly, ‘Does My Lord and King doubt Laroque’s loyalty?’
Mihale frowned, tried to recall why he had decided Laroque would not accompany them. Suddenly remembered. ‘I do not doubt it, and nor should you. Yet I would have him away while his kin are found and punished.’
‘And your sister, Lord?’
Mihale blinked, his mind drifting again. She who was now his sister lay sleeping in his bed. Yet a strange excitement stirred in him as he envisaged a reunion with the woman he had denounced as his kin. The woman who had left him for another. She had now known two lovers and that both sickened and excited him. As did his own thoughts. With the impending loss of her Champion, might he claim her at last for himself?
‘Would you … bring her to me?’ he asked.
Sh’hale’s expression grew wary, reminding Mihale that he did not approve of his King wasting his days in a bed of pleasure to the neglect of his military arts. ‘Majesty, she belongs to Be’uccdha,’ he said. ‘He is her husband, and the father of her child.’
Kert’s gaze strayed to his King’s hands and Mihale tried to still their trembling. Failed. ‘You are right of course,’ he said. ‘She bears his child, which he must have.’ Kert’s frown smoothed and Mihale added, ‘And doubtless he wishes to punish her.’ After which time she would come gladly to her brother for sanctuary, and he would welcome her with open arms. ‘Go now, prepare,’ he said, and waved Sh’hale away, yet before his Champion had reached the door Mihale added, ‘We leave in the morning.’
‘And Laroque will accompany us?’
Mihale nodded absently, his attention focused inward on the fantasy he now wove. ‘Make what arrangements you will,’ he said. ‘The details do not interest me.’
‘I shall leave a welcoming party to greet your new bride.’
Mihale merely gazed at him blankly. Bhoo had said something about the daughter of Verdan, although now he could not recollect it entirely. His mind was not as sharp as it had been.
‘Majesty.’ Kert bowed and swept out, his finely woven cloak catching the doorway a moment before following him out.
Later, when Mihale lay in the arms of his lover, he remembered that cloak, the way it had clung to the timber, dark and soft, stretching to escape when it could easily have torn on a splinter.
Remembering it, he stroked the warm flesh at his side. ‘You are the cloak,’ he said. ‘You are the dark pleasure,’ and as she murmured her love-talk Mihale put his fingers around her neck, and began with a caress. Yet soon he found his thoughts drifting to the other — the one who had rejected him.
‘Majesty?’ she said, frightened, as he squeezed her throat. ‘I carry your child.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘And I carry your death.’ He gripped her more tightly and leant in to kiss her. ‘Does this not show my love, that I keep death away from you?’
‘Majesty. Yes!’ she gasped, yet he only eased a little and still held her firm.
‘I do not know you,’ he said, and steadying his resolve, he squeezed tighter still. Yet only for a moment before he left her to gasp and reclaim her breath. ‘Speak your name,’ he demanded.
‘I am your sister,’ she said, and the harshness of her voice held a pleasing harmony. No nuance of accent now discredited his belief.
Yet in his confusion he feared that the death he had entertained might visit her too
soon. ‘You must not die,’ he said, and tears fell from his eyes. Yet when the storm of his upset had passed he was happy to take her again in his arms. ‘Kiss me and tell me about the child we shall raise. Yet do not mention the father,’ he said, ‘in case I should be jealous.’
A long pause followed these words, then he heard his sister speak. ‘You, royal brother, are the father of my child. Do you doubt your own strength in me?’
‘I thought … but a moment …’ Mihale blinked in the darkness. ‘I shall name the child Lenid, in honour of my father.’
The body in his arms relaxed. ‘You have told me this,’ she said. ‘And now let us sleep.’
‘For soon a woman will come to make me a husband,’ he said.
‘A husband, My Lord?’ She yawned. ‘But you are my husband. And my brother.’
Mihale made no reply and soon her even breaths could be heard beside him, yet sleep did not come at all to Mihale who lay in the black night of despair and thought of another babe. A babe which must begone if he would have his sister back.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Khatrene wiped her forehead. She was smearing her face with dirt but that was better than having the perspiration run into her eyes and sting them.
Talis had promised they’d be off the Plains and into the Elder Stand by the following day and that was all that kept Khatrene going. They’d separated from Breehan and the children the day before to keep the children safe. Raiders wouldn’t attack a party of Plainsmen, but put Talis and Pagan in their midst and blood would be shed. Khatrene had stopped walking then and both men had taken turns carrying her, yet she still felt exhausted, and so close to the end of the pregnancy she just wanted the baby out, wanted to put it to sleep somewhere she wouldn’t feel every roll and kick. More than anything else she wanted her body back.
She had loved being pregnant, and loved the baby so much already that she was frightened of her feelings sometimes. But enough was enough. Twice she’d asked Talis if they could hurry the birth and twice he’d told her they must wait until the child was ready. He was so infuriatingly patient with her. So kind and gentle.
Pagan was kind too, if not patient. He never complained when it was his turn to carry her and sometimes he joked with her which kept her mind off being miserable. It was usually some derogatory remark about Lae, which had Khatrene wondering why his thoughts were so often on a girl he professed to dislike. She was particularly interested to hear that Pagan had ‘kissed the shrew to silence her’. He had become silent himself after telling her that and Khatrene had drawn her own conclusions.
For the most part she didn’t think about where they had been or where they were going. Instead, she spent her time daydreaming about a warm, scented bath, followed by days of languishing in fine silky sheets over a deeply padded mattress. Sometimes the fantasy was so clear she could smell ahroce petals floating in the bath, or imagine she could feel the soft texture of the bedding.
Khatrene wasn’t sure if she was torturing herself with these imaginings or keeping herself sane. In either case, she didn’t mention them to Talis. He had enough to worry about keeping them alive without wasting time on mundane matters like her growing obsession with warm water and clean sheets.
‘Your rack of sheep is ready,’ Pagan called.
She struggled away from her fictitious bath and glanced at Pagan who was crouching by a smokeless fire preparing their lunch.
‘That’s rack of lamb,’ she corrected, ‘and shouldn’t we wait for Talis?’
Pagan brought her a steaming plate and sat beside her with his own huge serving. ‘He will be some time yet. There is still a distance to travel this day and he is scouting ahead to ensure your safety.’
Khatrene poked at the lump on her plate. ‘This isn’t rack of lamb,’ she said. ‘It’s ort roast. Again.’
Pagan looked at his own plate, then back to Khatrene’s. He shrugged. ‘The sheeps all fled my sword.’
‘Tease.’ Khatrene took a mouthful, tried to dwell on the heartiness of the meal, rather than its monotony. ‘And anyway, it’s sheep,’ she corrected. ‘Plural and singular. Not sheeps.’
They ate in silence for a time until Pagan said, ‘In Magoria, do they cut the flesh from these … animals and eat them?’
Khatrene could think of more pleasant dinner conversation. ‘I didn’t eat any, and now that I’m here I can understand why the idea revolted me. But other people did. It’s cooked first. Like this stuff. Would you eat raw ort?’
Pagan pulled a face. ‘I would sooner eat Plains dust.’
‘That’s how they feel about raw sheeps.’
‘Sheep,’ he corrected, and their eyes met.
‘He can be taught.’
‘Did you doubt it?’ he asked.
His arrogant expression cried out for a put-down, but Khatrene resisted. ‘I make it a practice never to insult the cook,’ she said diplomatically and went back to eating. Underneath his bravado Khatrene knew Pagan was missing his father, and had probably begun to wonder why he’d ever followed his cousin into exile.
‘And if I were not the cook?’ he demanded.
Khatrene looked him up and down. ‘Don’t let your warrior plaits go to your head,’ she said, nodding at the thin strands of hair Talis had finally approved. Pagan smiled at this recognition of his new status and they went back to eating.
Still, as she ate, she had to struggle to hide her smile. He was tilting his head from side to side so he could watch his warrior plaits sway. ‘My cat’s tail used to sway like that,’ she said. ‘It was a game between us that I’d try to grab it.’
Pagan stopped swaying and looked at her. ‘This would be Spike, the … tabby.’
She nodded to acknowledge his good memory, but said, ‘Careful, you’re impressing me.’
He smirked at the compliment. ‘This tail-catching was a dexterity exercise?’
‘No, a game. He liked to play.’
‘And if you caught his tail?’
‘He’d bite me.’
‘A strange reward for your effort.’
She smiled. ‘Spike was a strange cat.’
‘Yet you were fond of him?’
‘Absolutely.’
Pagan grinned. ‘Then I shall not give up hope of securing someone’s affection.’
Khatrene laughed. ‘I know just the bitey kitten to give a big tomcat like you a run for his money.’
Pagan’s smile faded as he caught her meaning, but rather than argue, he let the subject drop.
The rest of the meal went down in companionable silence, then Khatrene lay down for a nap. But her baby was restless and sleep wouldn’t come, so she sat back up and sang to herself while she waited for Talis to return. Old MacDonald had a Farm bored her after four choruses so she switched to She’ll be coming round the Mountain when she comes!
Talis arrived moments before Pagan would have throttled her and after sizing up the situation, he quickly settled his cousin into a ritual of self-healing which was supposed to make up for not having slept in three days. Khatrene pulled her lover down to sit with her while he ate, but her smile disappeared as her hand came off his jacket bloody.
Talis shook his head. ‘A minor wound,’ he said, ‘and healed already.’ But Khatrene wasn’t happy till the jacket was off and she’d seen the faint line beneath, the result of a quick healing. The slash in the jacket was long, however, and the amount of blood sickening.
‘A lone Raider inside the
Elder Stand,’ he said and Khatrene was momentarily distracted.
‘We’re that close?’
‘Two hours’ march.’
Khatrene nodded, but now her feelings were mixed. Relief came tainted with anxiety. The Elder Stand had seemed a cool sanctuary after the dusty monotony of the Plains, but now she imagined pale Raiders waiting behind every tree. She almost wished they could go back to the Plainsmen. Only there was no going back.
Talis had said nothing to her about a possible pursuit but she could see the anxiety in his eyes, feel the urgency within him. He believed they were being followed and that meant they must go on. They all knew that whatever lay before them was preferable to what lay behind.
‘I should pack,’ he said, glancing at their scant belongings, but Khatrene shook her head. She moved to sit next to him and rested her head against his chest as his arms came around her, one large hand smoothing the hair back under the hood of her heavy cloak, the other resting protectively on her huge belly.
The baby purred within her and Khatrene smiled. She felt so contented when Talis held her like this, she wanted to purr herself, but she couldn’t pretend there was nothing to be frightened of.
She touched his face and brought his gaze to meet her own; she needed to tell him what was in her heart. ‘I don’t want you to die,’ she said, then swallowed back her fear. Voicing the words had somehow given them life.
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