Pagan took the child carefully out of her arms and transferred the limp bundle to his bed which the hovering maid had turned back. ‘He will sleep for many hours,’ Pagan told them.
‘I will sit and watch him,’ Lae said, but Pagan knew she would only torture herself with recriminations if she stayed awake.
‘Sleep with him,’ he told her, pulling back the covers. ‘Hold him and he will be comforted if he wakes.’
‘I …’ She looked from Pagan to the maid.
‘It is wise, My Lady,’ the maid said. ‘I will not leave this room until you waken.’
Pagan heard sincerity in that voice, and guilt.
Still Lae frowned until a voice from behind them said. ‘The Guardian is right. Do as he says.’
Kert.
Pagan’s fingers tightened on the bedclothes. His breathing quickened but he forced it to slow, instinctively glancing around himself for a weapon. He had left his rooms unarmed and death lay in Sh’hale’s voice.
Lae turned to Kert, her eyes wide with concern, yet there was no fear in her. If anything, Pagan thought he saw tenderness in the gaze she laid on his enemy. ‘Lenid is … fine,’ she told him.
Pagan followed her gaze and saw Sh’hale at the curtain, his expression stiff. ‘The Guardian will explain. You should sleep now.’
Lae nodded at this and Pagan found a moment’s frustration that she obeyed Kert so easily, yet he hid it from her, smiling encouragement as she stepped out of her court slippers to climb into the bed with her son. The stiff fabric of her gown rustled as she pulled the child into her arms and Pagan covered them carefully.
Then when he would leave them, Lae’s hand shot out, grasping his arm. ‘Do not go far,’ she said, and the message in her eyes was one of sudden desperation.
Though Pagan longed to take that hand and kiss each trembling finger, he disengaged her grip and laid her hand back on the bed. ‘I will be in the next room, speaking with Kert. If you fear for your son you need only call me and I will return.’
Lae glanced at Kert, frowning for a moment before turning to kiss her son and settle herself to sleep. Pagan rose from the edge of the bed, a task that required enormous effort, and when the maid had finished whispering in her lord’s ear, he followed Kert through the boy’s play room and into the next chamber. Pagan went straight to a couch while Kert closed the door behind them and turned his back to it.
‘Do not assume,’ he said carefully, ‘that because you have saved my son’s life I will allow my wife’s gratitude to sway her into foolishness.’
How Pagan longed to tell Kert that Lae loved him, she had admitted as much. But instead he said, ‘The boy is not your son. Was he Mihale’s? Is that why he is called Lenid, after Mihale’s father?’
Kert’s eyes narrowed. ‘I am the only father he has known. Or will know,’ he added coldly. ‘I am his Champion.’
Pagan shook his head. ‘You cannot think that I covet that role,’ he said plainly. ‘Though I remember nothing of the experience, I have championed for sixteen years and the powers only know how I survived that. I am a warrior, not a nursemaid,’ though in truth, Pagan felt as weak as one.
‘Yet here today you saved our king’s life,’ Kert said, his words flat and empty of gratitude.
‘Is he the king?’ Pagan asked, suddenly realising the child’s importance and understanding the necessity of the deception that had been woven around him.
‘Unless your charge disputes his claim.’
So that was the purpose behind Lae’s questioning. No wonder she had mistrusted him. Pagan’s heart went out to her, but knowing her secret brought no easy solutions. ‘Does The Dark know of Lenid’s existence?’
Kert shook his head. ‘The Be’uccdha whore who bore him hid her condition from her lord. After Mihale’s death I found her and brought her here. She died in childbirth. I claimed the child as mine and Lae’s.’
Pagan had been about to berate Kert for calling Lae a Be’uccdha whore. He shook his head. ‘The mother died?’
‘Ghett. The king’s mistress.’ Kert looked at him as if he were stupid. Perhaps he was.
‘Ghett,’ he repeated. Not Lae. Which meant nothing bound his beloved to Sh’hale except a love of the child they both protected. If he’d had the energy, Pagan would have danced for joy. Still, considering his companion, he knew it was wisest to keep his happiness to himself.
‘Though he is not hers by blood,’ Kert went on, ‘do not doubt that Lae is his mother.’
‘And to keep up the pretence of a family you would bind her to you, even though there is no love?’
Kert looked him in the eye. ‘There is love,’ he said softly, menacingly. ‘And should you trespass against that, you will be punished.’
‘Throw me in the dungeon,’ Pagan offered. ‘But know that if I had languished there today, your king would be dead. For his sake if no other, you must curb your jealousy.’
‘Do not test my patience,’ Kert said, moving from the door.
‘The boy’s life was secured by the smallest thread,’ Pagan told him, trying to keep his attention on his duty. ‘A minute later and I would have failed.’
‘If you had, you would now be dead,’ Kert told him.
Pagan swallowed back anger. ‘I need to remain near him for several days to be sure the revival is complete.’
Kert nodded, but Pagan could see he was reluctant. ‘Then best you be thorough, for you only live as long as he does.’
‘And while he lives your guilt is hidden.’
Kert stopped before the couch, looking down. ‘Guilt?’ he asked.
‘If the king had died you would have blamed me. But who is his Champion?’ Pagan knew he was being cruel. The boy’s death had been an accident no Champion could have foreseen or forestalled, but he wanted Kert focusing his emotions on the child. Not on Lae.
‘You will remain here, in this room, until Lenid awakens.’ Kert’s dark eyes bored into Pagan’s. ‘I will watch over my wife and my son.’
Pagan ached to be the one watching them as they slept, to be able to brush back the hair from Lae’s face while she was gentled by slumber’s soft embrace. A feeling of tenderness came to him then, and a flickering image, of his hand brushing back pale golden hair from a woman’s face. In an instant it was gone, but it unsettled Pagan, and long after Kert had stalked out he remembered the face and the feeling that had come with it, of tender amusement and, unmistakably, of love.
Love. When he had believed that only Lae had a claim on his heart.
The thought was inconceivable so he pushed it from his mind and settled himself to perform the rite of self-healing, but a word kept repeating itself in his mind. A word he had thought was behind him. A word that should have had no meaning in his life, yet suddenly did.
Sarah.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Noola held her son’s hands and looked into his eyes, unable to stop smiling. She could not bring herself to release him, therefore she had said nothing with her hands, but she knew her eyes would tell him all that was in her heart.
‘My brother is well?’ Hanjeel asked and she nodded, knowing there would be time for introductions later.
‘And your mother has two other children besides.’ Eef said, sitting beside Noola on the cave floor, her ravenous eyes eating up Hanjeel from the top of his silky hair to the soles of his elegant feet. ‘A son by Breehan and a daughter sired by the captive Be’uccdha.’
‘I am ready to do my duty for the tribe,’ Hanjeel said to his mother, a small smile on his lips. He slid a glance towards Eef who was wearing her finest bindings. ‘Will you kill the Be’uccdha sire now?’ he asked, returning his gaze to his mother. ‘Am I to take over his duties?’
‘I will kill him.’ Eef said, but Noola shook her head.
He will live, she signed with one hand, the other still holding Hanjeel’s. I cannot mate with my son. The Be’uccdha will continue to serve me. And perhaps I will release him from bondage. Noola did not add that she had
been considering this even before Hanjeel’s appearance.
Yet before Eef’s outraged expression could find voice, Hanjeel said, ‘Breehan is alive.’
Noola felt her smile fade, her heartbeats slow.
‘He is greatly aged, and will soon die, having given his life to the Fire God to earn my freedom.’ Hanjeel said. ‘He desires to die among his people.’
That is his right, Noola signed stiffly. Breehan not dead? She had reconciled herself to that loss so long ago. And greatly aged …
Eef cut into her thoughts. ‘The Be’uccdha will kill you at the first opportunity.’
He may kill you, Noola signed, struggling to push Breehan from her mind. I have not ill treated him.
Eef frowned, but could not go against her leader’s command. ‘I will not be near when he is released.’
‘I will protect you, Eef,’ Hanjeel said, and even to a mother’s ears his tone was heavy with the pulse of joining. He released Noola’s hand and stood, muscles rippling over smooth brown skin. ‘Show me a secluded place and I will watch over you there,’ he offered.
Eef merely gaped at him.
Noola was impressed. Her son had grown into a man and there was no mistaking his intention. It was fortunate that repopulating their tribe was their sole concern, for Noola doubted her son knew how to do anything else. His years in the strange forest appeared to have transformed him into a potent sire.
I leave you to your duty, she signed, postponing her questions about Breehan. And will see you at the night meal.
It had been enough to hear from Hanjeel’s lips that their enemy was dead and their people were safe, so Noola left them in privacy and went to Mooraz’s cave. He would want to hear this news also.
She banged on the wall near his door with a stick she had left for that purpose.
‘Come in,’ he called and Noola entered. He was standing against the far wall, his wrist chained to the floor in the centre of the room, allowing him five paces in any direction. Normally he relaxed when he saw that his visitor was Noola, but this day he watched her warily, glancing over her shoulder and looking at her empty hands.
I am alone and unarmed, she signed, wondering why he was tense. My son is returned to us. Was that it? Had he heard a male voice and thought his captivity was over? Eef had probably told him he would die on that day. Certainly that had been Noola’s original intention, yet over time she had formed a grudging respect for Mooraz. A respect that, in fact, was no longer grudging. A respect that she sensed was mutual.
I cannot mate with my son, she signed, pleased that Mooraz had learned to understand her and had done so willingly.
‘Then I am not to be released.’
Or killed.
‘I have a duty to My Lady of Be’uccdha,’ he said. ‘She needs me.’
I … Noola dropped her hands and looked into his face, at the familiar dark features, the slow-moving eyes, the long dark braids. Then her gaze fell to his bared chest, ignoring the stub which he turned away to hide in the shadows, and lower to the threadbare breeches he insisted on wearing. I must have more children, she signed, and found her fingers were stiff and awkward. You must stay here. With me. For me.
Mooraz shook his head. ‘I will never stay willingly,’ he said.
If I let the Cliffdweller girl go?
She watched as he thought about that, his throat moving convulsively to swallow back emotions he would never reveal. ‘One child,’ he said softly, and she heard desperation in his tone.
Noola held up two fingers and he closed his eyes. She waited until he opened them again before tracing the tattoo of Be’uccdha over her own cheek.
‘The Dark?’
Dead, she signed, by my son’s hand. She watched him for signs of anger or frustration but saw nothing. Not even relief. He simply stared at her for the longest time, then said, ‘You will let Hush go?’
Noola snapped her fingers. Now.
‘Then I will do as you ask, but only if you release me from bondage and give me permission to kill Eef if she comes into my rooms?’
Noola smiled. She knew she would rather lose Eef than Mooraz. She clasped her hands together. Agreed. And stepped forward to unlock his chain. Their years together had formed a bond of trust, yet as she stepped into the perimeter of his chain she could not still apprehension. What if she was wrong? What if he killed them all the moment he was released?
She stood in front of him with the key in her hand and wondered how she had come to this place. Breehan would think her mad. Yet remembering Breehan was like remembering a dream. The feelings he had awoken in her seemed so distant, overlaid by the complexity of her relationship with the man who stood before her.
Mooraz touched her arm and she looked up into his face.
‘We are of different blood, but we both rejoice in the death of The Dark. This is the glue that binds us.’
There was more than that, but Noola was unsure how to go forward so she said nothing. Instead she forced her fumbling fingers to unlocked his wrist. The chain fell heavily to the floor.
You are free, she signed, and forced herself to look at him.
Mooraz simply shook his head. ‘Let the Cliffdweller girl go and I will do as you ask. Only then I am free.’
Noola released the breath she’d been holding. So be it, she signed, and their pact was sealed.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Glimmer waited until the Plains dust they had brought with them through the portal swirled and settled on the carpet of grass they had appeared on. The old Plainsman had fallen again in their turbulent conveyance and she stooped to help him to his feet. She could see he was exhausted, and knew her own strength was nearing its end, but time was running out.
‘Here, take my hand,’ she said, and he offered his own limply, barely able to help as she pulled him up. Glimmer glanced around the garden, searching out the exit that would take them to the Great Hall. They must anchor this point at the Volcastle mouth, and quickly. Later there would be time for introductions and explanations with the castle residents.
‘I will die soon,’ Breehan said, his voice not rising above a wheezing gasp. ‘This castle and no more.’
‘This is the last,’ she assured him, and the map within her mind agreed. The Maelstrom would descend upon them in earnest as the last point was anchored. Glimmer did not understand why, because the anchoring should buy them more peace. But this was not occurring. Her progression towards the Volcastle had brought the Maelstrom closer and after today there would be no more random storms and reversed seasons. The end-times would begin in earnest and on the face of the Four Worlds, there would be nowhere to hide.
Yet how was this happening? She could see no mistake on her part. The anchoring would be successful, yet the full fury of the Maelstrom would be unleashed, as though the force of her will suddenly failed. Since she had been a small child, Glimmer had held the Maelstrom in check with her mind. The act was unconscious on her part, like the involuntary action of breathing. But this day, her mind would release it and Glimmer had not the slightest idea why. Some failure on the part of the old man?
‘Stay close to me,’ she told him as she led him along a paved path.
‘What scent is that?’ he asked. ‘Subtle and yet with a sharp undertone.’
‘Ahroce flowers. These bushes were planted by my grandmother. The yellow was her favourite.’
‘Your mother spoke of this volcano castle while she was hiding among us,’ he said, making conversation to distract himself from his bodily discomfort. ‘She said it was a happy place.’
To keep him functioning, Glimmer obliged by joining the conversation. ‘She was reunited with her brother here. Perhaps that is the happy memory she holds.’
‘Where are they now?’ Breehan asked.
Glimmer led him through a delicately arched doorway and out of the sunlight into a corridor illuminated by torches. ‘In a safe place,’ she answered. ‘Waiting for me.’
‘Who goes there?’ a voice shouted be
hind them and Glimmer felt her companion falter.
‘No harm can befall you,’ she told him as they continued down the corridor.
‘My Lady? The Light?’ a voice called from much closer behind.
‘The Catalyst has arrived,’ she said, not bothering to turn. ‘Bring your lord to the Great Hall. I will speak to him there.’ Some imperative kept Glimmer’s feet moving. Something that told her no time must be lost.
Guards fell away from them in confusion, some bowing to her, conscious of her royal colouring, whispering, ‘Blood of the Ancients’; and others with hands on swords, unsure of their duty as this pale spectre clad in glittering black strode past them.
At last they reached the Great Hall and Glimmer paused in the doorway. The high stone ceiling spread away from them towards the central point of the circular chamber. Above that there was no ceiling and the harsh rays of full sun fell onto the dais and into the smoking Volcastle mouth.
‘There,’ she pointed. ‘We will anchor it there.’
Breehan nodded, leaning heavily on her arm, the memory stone dangling from his throat. Glimmer was careful to ensure she did not make contact with it as she urged him forward, matching his shuffling gait as they passed seating and began up the stairs that led to the dais.
‘Not long now,’ he said, patting her arm as though to reassure her, although Glimmer knew he was speaking to himself.
‘Here, at the side of the chasm,’ she said, steadying him on the edge of the Volcastle mouth. ‘Can you stand without falling in?’
Breehan looked down at the russet glow of lava and the smoke that drifted up to them and smiled. ‘I have energy enough to complete your task,’ he said.
The Volcastle rumbled, a soft growling sound that reminded Glimmer of Claude purring. It was an odd association, and no doubt prompted by Sarah’s influence on her upbringing. The Magorian woman often compared odd items, as though they had an emotional connection. Naturally, for Glimmer, there could be no connection except through the intellect.
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