Dream Quest

by Неизвестный

  The first clearing was too close to their camp. The second, better, though not as spacious. It would do. He opened himself to the moons' power, the muscles of his arms and chest expanding. His large wings unfurled with a hard snap. He shoved them downward. Branches whipped in the downdraft. Pinecones pelted the forest floor. Sleeping birds scattered, screeching. He soared upward with them, his heart pounding, his breath straining. He was free.

  The night sky was infinite. He focused on that, not on the small form asleep by the remnants of a campfire. A small form with bruises on her wrists from the metal shackles he could've removed but hadn't. A small form who held a secret tightly guarded inside her: the reason she needed to speak to Master Rowan.

  He understood about secrets. She would learn of his, when he learned hers.

  She would hate him. Hate him and fear him, though he didn't think it likely she'd cower on the ground as some had. His gutter-thief had far too much backbone for that. More likely, that soft, expressive mouth of hers would thin, harden. She might even spit out a curse or two. He'd already heard more than a few samples of those. Torrin's mouth curved in amusement as he dipped one wing, circling back. It had been late in the afternoon of the first day and his attempts to ascertain the facts behind her request had evolved into a discussion about the chancellor's policies. And elicited from her a string of invectives so colorful he'd laughed aloud; something he hadn't done in--

  Riders! His gut tensed as he spotted them in the predawn light, moving northward. A long dark line, their armor purposely dulled by a waxy coating, signaling their intentions were anything but friendly. This far away, he couldn't sense if they were guardsmen or marauders. But they were armed and heading straight for her.

  He turned abruptly in midair, his teeth gritted in anger, something more painful inexplicably closing around his heart. The wind scraped his face as it rushed over his skin. Time, could he reach her in time? He knew she wouldn't hear their approach 'til they were almost on top of her. His damned spell would make sure of that. She would awaken to swords drawn. It would be too late to run.

  He had to reach her before they did. The band might have time on their side, but he had the element of surprise. He dove past both clearings. Branches snapped, birds squawked and he glimpsed her rising groggily onto her elbows when he was still a few hundred yards away.

  A burly woman in a Royal Enforcer's tunic had grabbed a fistful of Miera's tousled hair and yanked her head back, exposing her throat. The tip of a bearded man's sword touched her chest. Something burned correspondingly in his own. He'd already marked the band of riders as dead, simply for their intrusion. If they harmed her, he'd not only kill them, but kill them slowly. Painfully. As befitted the legends of the moon-kin.

  "The scroll! Where is it? Now!"The swordsman's voice carried clearly. He swung one booted foot, aimed for her midsection. And missed as Miera wrenched to the right, arching her back, flailing upward with her own boot. She caught the swordsman in the groin.

  The man's roar of pain covered the first harsh rush of wind through the trees, but not the second. Nor the deliberate thud of boots on the ground. Torrin left his wings unfurled, shadowing his face. He wanted them to see what he was but not who.

  The burly woman's eyes widened in fear. "Chalith! There, by the rocks!"She stepped back quickly, releasing Miera from her grasp.

  The four remaining Enforcers turned as one, swords sliding through sheaths. The injured swordsman struggled to his feet. "Your protector, Lady Valanmier?"he grunted, lunging for her.

  Lady Valanmier? Torrin's mind froze at the name. Froze long enough that the swordsman reached his gutter-thief who wasn't a gutter-thief at all. But the queen's niece, betrothed of the Chancellor's son and a member of the Royal House of Valan. The family crest proudly bore a beheaded Chalith impaled on a stake.

  This esteemed member of the royal family plowed her fist into the side of the swordsman's face. The man fell backward, not as much from the blow from her hand as the impact of the heavy metal shackle. "Kill her!"the man screamed.

  The four remaining men split up, flanking her.

  "She has the scroll,"the woman countered, one hand out to stop her comrades' charge.

  "Or the Chalith does."There was hatred and fear in the look the swordsman gave him. Torrin had no idea of Miera's thoughts. Not Miera's. Lady Valanmier's. Her back was to him, her concentration no doubt on the assassins in her family's employ. Assassins sent to kill not him, but her.

  It made no sense. It must be a trap, their actions against Lady Valanmier a ruse. He moved, short Chalith blade glowing in his right hand, wings arched high. One shove and he'd be airborne, out of reach of their swords.

  Except they had more than swords. The second soldier thrust his free hand into his pocket then threw something on the ground. A small talisman, ensorcelled. Powerful.

  Before Torrin had time to construct a warding spell, its magic hit him in the chest with the force of a battering ram. He stumbled, gasped. His vision hazed for a moment and when it cleared, Miera was in front of him, a small cylinder in her outstretched hand.

  "Torrin, take this to Master Rowan!"

  "The scroll!"one of the soldiers shouted.

  He grabbed it. Gods' oath, she didn't know who he was.

  "Fly!"she screamed at him. She kicked the talisman, sending it tumbling a few feet farther away from him. The short hunting knife in her hand pointed not at him but at the advancing line of Enforcers. "Find Master Rowan!"

  "Traitorous bitch!"The burly woman's curse was directed at Miera, but she swung her sword at Torrin. It missed his left wing only because Miera stepped in its path. It sliced open her forearm. A strained cry escaped her throat but she stayed on her feet, challenging the Enforcer. Defending him, a Chalith.

  The glint of swords on his right told him he had only seconds to escape. Only seconds to live if he didn't get airborne and away from that talisman, now.

  He grabbed her by the waist, instead, propelling her behind him. "Run!"Painfully, he shifted his wings back inside himself and barreled after her.

  Blood stained her shirt, flowed down her fingers like tiny red raindrops. He fixed on her blood's essence with his mind, wove a spell. The ground behind them slickened into a thick, wine-colored mud. It slowed the Enforcers' pursuit, but didn't stop them.

  He overtook her at the first clearing. She was pale, gasping. The distance from the ensorcelled talisman restored some of his strength. He didn't know where the Enforcers had obtained such deep magic. He couldn't worry about that right now.

  "I can't..."She drew in a raspy breath. "The scroll's more important. Leave me here. I'll delay them. Find Master Rowan, please!"

  Footsteps thudded closer. Shouts grew louder. He clasped her wrist. "This way."

  "But--?"

  "Damn you, woman, don't argue!"He dragged her through a thick stand of trees to what he knew lay behind. He stopped at the edge of the precipice just as the Enforcers broke through the foliage. "Put your arms around my neck, now!"

  She obeyed without comment for once, her eyes wide in alarm. The drop behind them was hundreds of feet. He jumped, shifting, his wings exploding out of his form with a crack like summertide thunder. He held her tightly as he surged upward. The morning sun was rising and he had only minutes left in his true Chalith form.

  He spied a clearing on the edge of the valley, glided for it. Miera shivered against his chest, but if it were from fear or from her injury, he didn't know. He suspected the latter. He'd watched her stand up to the Enforcers. His gutter-thief, who wasn't a gutter-thief, had backbone.

  He landed roughly, his wings already weakening as the moons set. Her large, dark- lashed eyes followed his movements as he quickly constructed a makeshift camp and used magic to light a small fire. She still said nothing, not even when he ripped off her shirtsleeve. Not even when he dissolved her shackles with a touch. That worried him almost as much as her shivering.

  Only when he'd cleansed her wound, bound it and tried t
o ease her pain with a few small spells did she speak: "Torry, leave me. Find Master Rowan."

  A bramble was stuck in her hair. He gently pulled it from the silken strands. She didn't flinch from his touch. He marveled at that for a moment. That and the fact that she was Lady Valanmier and the House of Valan had long ago sentenced all Chalith to death. "You could've let them kill me, then claimed I'd kidnapped you."It would have made sense. It might well have saved her life.

  "And claimed as well you forced me to steal the scroll from my aunt's private study?"She shook her head. "No Chalith has been within a day's journey of the palace in centuries. And lived,"she added. "They knew I, alone, took it, though not for a fortnight. Then they'd almost found me in Frothborn. I let myself be caught and thrown into jail. It seemed to be the one place they wouldn't look for me. Or the scroll."

  He touched the ornate cylinder tucked in his belt. "This was your reason for the Calling?"

  She seemed not to hear him and he realized she studied his face. "I didn't know a Chalith could also bear The Mark."

  There were a number of things she didn't know, including the burden of being a Marked Chalith. He wanted his answers, first. He pulled the cylinder from the belt, uncapped it and tilted it so that the parchment scroll slid into his hand. He felt its magic immediately, prickling his skin as if the bramble he'd plucked from her hair had grown a thousand-fold. It was laced with magic, deep, dark magic. He frowned, recognizing the source of power that had whispered through her Call.

  "It's a spell,"she said, but he knew that already.

  "For?"he prompted. What could be so important she'd risk the condemnation of her family, her very life?

  "It sets out how to kill Master Rowan."

  He stared at her. Rumor solidified into fact. They knew. Someone knew. The readings in the mage-circles were correct. The unthinkable had become reality. Something once again threatened the Circle. And he held it in his hand.

  But how much did she know, understand? "Master Rowan,"he said, repeating what the Mundane had been taught for centuries, "is immortal."

  "Only his name. It's bestowed upon a Chalith in the Circle of Seven. Which used to be the Circle of Thirteen."This time she frowned. "Unless my information was in error?"

  No, her information was fully correct and one the Mundane were never to know. If he'd been aware of her knowledge days ago, everything that had happened in the last few hours could have been avoided. "Why didn't you tell me this in Frothborn?"he asked more harshly than he wanted to. In spite of his spells, her blood dripped through the strips of cloth on her arm and her face was more pale than he wanted it to be. And her brassiness, her teasing haughtiness, was absent.

  "If you'd told me you were Chalith, I would have. You know I couldn't trust anyone else. My people, you call us the Mundane, my people fear the Chalith. Even some of the Marked do."

  He nodded. He knew of the desertion, of the thinning of the ranks. That was why he'd answered the Call.

  "They think you're demons,"she continued. "When the chancellor reveals that Master Rowan is Chalith, and not immortal, they'll hunt him down. They don't understand the master, and the Chalith, protect us."

  "But you do."He traced the edge of her face with one finger. Again, she didn't flinch but held his gaze evenly with an acceptance he didn't dare believe possible. A heat fluttered through his body, and it wasn't from the sun rising overhead. He pushed it away, tried to concentrate on his other reason for touching her. "You're not Chalith-ar."He'd thought for sure she would be, even when he learned of her Valan heritage. How else would she have known the truth? Why else would she permit his touch?

  "The summertide I turned eighteen, my family decided it best I be kept in MistHaven, until my betrothal was announced."Her eyes narrowed in obvious distaste. "Much like a prize calflet is kept in the pen until slaughter."Then her expression changed, became downcast. "My ship encountered a storm at sea. Only myself and two crewman survived."

  He remembered the news, vaguely, of a royal schooner lost. It had been about four years ago.

  "We were rescued by a Chalith and her Chalith-ar husband. For months they cared for us, asking nothing in return. Once we were strong enough to travel, they made sure we were on the next merchant ship to MistHaven. We willingly pledged an oath to them. They saved our lives. We would never knowingly endanger theirs."

  "And because of them, Master Rowan's,"he put in softly.

  She laid her fingers on the scroll. "There may be other copies, but if Master Rowan has this, he can weave spells to defend against it. As we sit here, the queen gathers her army to strike. He can save himself. He can save the Chalith and this Land."She leaned toward him and he could tell the movement pained her. "But first you must save Master Rowan!"

  Rowan Dal'Chalith Nar Torrin gently eased her back against the mossy boulder and enfolded her hands in his. "You just did, my lady. You just did."

  * * *

  This he knew with unwavering certainty as he held her in his arms, as the power of the full moons pulsed their night-borne magic through him: he would not leave her side until her wounds were healed, until the color again bloomed on her cheeks, until brassy retorts once again tripped off her tongue. Only then would he ask her to return to the Circle of Seven with him, to take her place as his heart-mate at his side.

  A war of deep magicks hovered over the land like a lengthening shadow. This, too, he knew with unwavering certainty. But Rowan Dal'Chalith Nar Torrin would not face this battle alone.

  Lady of Maragorn

  by J. C. Wilder

  J. C. Wilder is an award-winning paranormal romance author who also writes erotica as Dominique Adair. Her latest books include Paradox, and Temptation, part of the Shadow Dweller Series. Readers can check out her website at www.jcwilder.com

  As long as she lived, she would never kiss another man.

  WHACK!

  Nia attacked the small pile of leafy herbs with her butcher knife, releasing the pleasing scents of basil, rosemary and sage. Considering she was immortal, as long as she lived meant an eternity without kisses.

  She cast a mournful glance at the row of stone statues lining the rear of her worktable. Her gaze followed the statues around the small, comfortable room. Small groups of stone creatures crowded the corner pantry, the bookshelves over her bed, the fireplace mantel and the shelves above her windows and doors.

  Finally, after having run out of shelves in her cozy cabin, she'd resorted to placing the wee beasties in rows before the fireplace. During the cool evenings, she'd prop her feet on their little ugly heads and warm her toes.

  In fact, there were so many of the creatures surrounding her that there were times when she felt like she were suffocating. The cabin she'd called home for the past two hundred years was bursting at the seams with her victims.

  Her victims.

  Her shoulders slumped. It was her fault. These men, mortal men who had been lured into the woods by stories of the Lady of Maragorn--a healer of unsurpassed skill, a she-elf of incomparable beauty--were turned into gargoyles. It was said that a man could find paradise in a single kiss. They came to her, at least four to five a year, wanting only to kiss her, to touch her. But at the first touch of her lips, they'd been transformed into stone statues of hideous little gargoyles.

  She looked at two sitting on the edge of the mantel over her eastward window. Some of them, like Ran the Dark and Nikolaz of Riverhaven, a fellow elf, she'd truly loved. In her heart of hearts, she'd believed they could be the one to set her free.

  According to the story her mother had told her from her deathbed, the only action that could release her from this endless curse of immortality was true love's first kiss. Only, for her, it hadn't worked. Both men had turned to stone at the touch of her lips, leaving her alone and heartbroken.

  But today was going to be different. Today she was taking her fate into her own hands.

  Nia squared her shoulders and set the knife aside. Today, on her two hundred and twenty-second bir
thday, she was going to end her curse by taking her own life.

  Outside the window over her workbench, a soft, late spring rain fell. The scent of wet earth, loam and growing plants teased her senses. How she loved the spring, the ripening of nature after the release from winter's icy embrace. The creatures coming back to life, the newborns to be found in the woods, it was like magic.

  Just like herself.

  Humming under her breath, she added the chopped herbs to her conjure bowl, which was already half-filled with the ingredients she'd gathered fresh from the woods earlier in the day. Taking her pestle, she began grinding the contents into a fine paste. As she worked, she chanted the sacred words, passed down by her mother, under her breath.

  Megrew lithra arowen nighlie.

  The familiarity of the chant and the soothing movements calmed her soul. For months she'd been contemplating taking her own life, and now that the time was near, she felt oddly calm. Almost as if she knew she was doing the right thing. It was time to end the torment and loneliness she endured every day of her life.

  Two hundred years was a long time to spend with only the woodland animals as companions.

  But first, before she could complete the job, she had to free her victims from their cursed existence. Leaving them to dwell as statues forever while she took her leave was something she could not bear. Over the years she'd tried numerous times to reverse the spell to no avail. She was hoping that upon her death, she could turn everything to right and undo all of the damage she'd inflicted upon these men. It only made sense that, if she were dead, all of her spells would reverse.