The Black Gryphon v(mw-1

by Mercedes Lackey

  The wooden rollers were ready; so were the warming ointments for after the massage, in case the muscles needed herbal therapy. There was a pot of vero-grass tea steeping in case he needed to get her to relax beforehand.

  And, most importantly for a new and possibly shy client, all the other tools of his many trades had been packed away out of sight. Most of them, in fact, currently cluttered up his private quarters. The only hint that he might not be a simple Healer was the incense in the air, the opulent hangings, and the scattering of pillows around the floor.

  He prowled the room anyway, rearranging the pillows, making certain that nothing had been left out by accident, checking the oils to be certain they hadn’t gone the least tiny bit rancid. It was all energy-wasting, and he knew it, but the energy he was wasting was all from nerves, and it was his to waste if he chose.

  He wouldn’t have been here, now, if he’d had any other choice. He’d be waiting outside the Tower for Skan or lurking outside the mages’ meeting.

  I wish I knew what was going on at the meeting, he thought fretfully. I wonder if the hertasi have anyone there? If they do, Gesten will know the results as soon as they let out. Maybe before. I hope so—but of course Vikteren will tell me whatever happened.

  Gods, I hope Skan got out of the Tower without tripping some alarm or other. I hope the guard doesn’t figure he was up to something. I hope he wasn’t up to something. He simply spotted a book he could not resist, I’m sure. I hope Tamsin and Cinnabar really can find a way to give the gryphons their fertility. . . .

  Mental nattering, really. Fretting over things he could not control and could not change was a habit of his. If he could change something, he did so; if he couldn’t, he fretted it to pieces in hopes of finding a way he could affect the situation.

  Fortunately he didn’t have time to work himself up over either the mages’ meeting or Skan; Gesten finally poked his nose through the door flap and motioned someone inside.

  A female, but Amberdrake knew that already.

  But now he knew why Urtho had not specified who was coming, in making this appointment.

  Stiff, severe posture, mathematically precise hair, with three thin braids down the back of her neck, pinched expression, perfectly pressed and creased utilitarian clothing—Winterhart? Oh, gods.

  His shoulder muscles tensed, and his head started aching. He stopped his lip from curling with distaste just in time and dropped his mask of impas-siveness into place.

  I am a professional. Urtho sent her to me, and the fee he included should quite cover the fact that she is a pain in the tail. I can take care of her without becoming the least involved. She is only here for physical therapy. I don’t have to know her inmost secrets, I don’t even have to speak more than a dozen words to her.

  All that flashed through his mind, as he altered his expression into a carefully indifferent and businesslike smile. She was moving very stiffly, more so than he remembered, and it wasn’t all because she was not happy to be here. What had the note Urtho sent said? Back injury. Interesting; she was far stiffer than even a back injury would account for.

  I don’t have to open up to her to know that she is as tense as a cocked catapult. It’s written in every muscle. I can’t work on her like that, and she is not going to relax. . . .

  Interesting; I don’t think she recognizes me as having been with Skan. Maybe the dim light is working for me.

  There was certainly no sign of recognition in her eyes—and then, there was recognition, but no sudden pulling back that would indicate she realized he had watched while Skan and Zhaneel made her look the fool.

  Well, that tenseness was the reason there was vero-grass tea steeping. She wouldn’t be the first client who had come to a kestra’chern too tense to get any benefit from the visit.

  “You look thirsty,” he said quickly as she looked around suspiciously. “Please, do drink this tea before we begin. It will help you.”

  And as a Trondi’irn should know, vero-grass was thick with minerals; someone with a back injury was in need of minerals.

  She accepted the cup of tea dubiously, waved aside his offer of honey to sweeten it, and took a sip. Her eyes widened as she recognized what it was, but she said nothing; she simply gulped it down.

  Grimly, he thought. As if she dared him to do his worst.

  Well, he wouldn’t do his worst, he would do his best, and to hell with her and her opinions.

  “I’d like you to disrobe, please,” he said, taking the cup away from her and placing it out of the way. “And lie on the table.”

  Winterhart had not known until she stepped into this tent that Urtho had ordered her to the hands of a kestra’chern. But she knew Amberdrake by sight—it seemed that he was always messing about with the Healers and the gryphons in one way or another—and she knew what his profession was.

  She had thought she was being sent to a minor, unGifted Healer for her back problems—on Urtho’s direct orders of course, and after that rather painful interview following the altercation with Zhaneel. How the Mage had wormed the fact of her injury out of her, she had no idea.

  Then again, she had told him any number of things that she hadn’t intended to, and that was only one of them. At least the fact of the injury and the pain she was in had apparently saved her from a reprimand; Urtho evidently counted it as a reason for her irritation with the world in general and gryphons specifically.

  When he had told her that—and that he was ordering her to get treatment that he himself would schedule, she had been resentful, but just a little relieved.

  Now she was resentful, not at all relieved, angry—and truth to tell, more than a little frightened. Angry that Urtho had set her up like this without telling her. Resentful that he had interfered in her private life, arbitrarily assuming that there was something wrong with her sexual relations and setting her up with a kestra’chern.

  And frightened of what could happen at the hands of this particular kestra’chern.

  She had heard very embarrassing things about kestra’chern in general and this Amberdrake in particular, stories that would curl the hair of any well-born young woman with a sense of decency. Amberdrake had a reputation for things that were rather—exotic. Conn Levas had used the fact that he had gone to this particular kestra’chern to taunt her with her inadequacies, and the things he had said had gone on here were considerably more than exotic.

  And worst of all, she had no clue what Urtho had ordered for her . . . treatment.

  If anyone back in her wing found out she was here, she would never hear the end of it.

  And her back still hurt! That was reason enough to wish herself elsewhere!

  The gods only know what’s going to happen to my back if—if— She found herself flushing and resenting her own embarrassment. A lot of arching would be very bad for my spine right now. And I doubt he has any notion of that.

  Her suspicions hardened into certainty when she recognized the taste of the vero-grass tea. It was a calmative, yes, but it also had a reputation for enhacing other things than calm. But it was a muscle relaxant as well, and right now. . . .

  Right now, my back needs it badly enough that I’ll drink the damned stuff, she thought grimly. Maybe he thinks that if he drugs me enough, I’ll be too limp to stop him. Huh. Not with this back. One cup of tea isn’t going to do worse than take the edge off the pain.

  Then he looked at her as if he was sizing her up for purchase, and said, “Disrobe and get on the table, please.”

  She stared at him, utterly taken aback, as much by his clinical coldness as by the words. Wasn’t there supposed to be some—well—finesse involved here?

  She looked from Amberdrake to the table, and back again. “You want me to what?” she asked, still stunned.

  Amberdrake sighed with exasperation. What was wrong with the stupid woman? Couldn’t she understand that in order to massage her he would have to have her unclothed and on the table? Surely she didn’t think he could do anything with her
standing in the middle of the room like a statue!

  “You are who Urtho sent me, aren’t you?” he asked, with just a touch of irony.

  She swallowed, but with difficulty. “Yes—” she replied.

  “And you do have a back injury, do you not?” he persisted. What was going on in her mind?

  She answered with more reluctance than before. “Yes—”

  He sighed with open exasperation, which seemed to annoy her. Well, good. Up until this moment, he’d been the one who was annoyed. Let her enjoy the sensation for a change. “Then please, lady, let me help you, as I was assigned to do. I cannot help you if you will not disrobe and get on the table.”

  “Help me how?” she replied sharply, her eyes darting this way and that. “I thought I was being sent to a Healer!”

  He gritted his teeth so hard it hurt. “You have been sent to a Healer,” he replied, allowing his tone to tell her that there was no doubt that he was exasperated. “Apparently, you are not aware that a human cannot be effectively massaged through her clothing. If you would rather this were done by someone other than myself, you are quite free to leave. But you can explain to Urtho why you walked out on this rather expensive session. I perform my services in a professional manner, even with reluctant clients—and the services I intended to perform on you are entirely different from the ones I think you have imagined.”

  Beneath his calm, cool exterior he was seething, and his back teeth jammed so tightly together that it was a wonder they didn’t split. Another gods-be-damned, pure-as-rain Healer. I should have known she’d react this way. Tamsin and Cinnabar were only too accurate in the way they described her. Bright Keros, how much more am I going to have to put up with this kind of nonsense? I’m besieged, truly I am!

  And as for Winterhart the Pure—well, from the pinched look on her face, I’d say she’s certainly living down to her reputation as the Princess of Prim and Proper.

  She hadn’t budged a thumblength since he’d begun talking, and if his muscle readings were correct, she was so tense that he was rather mildly surprised that her eyes weren’t bulging out.

  And it was all too obvious that she not only didn’t believe he was a Healer, she was certain it was just some kind of a ploy to take advantage of her.

  As if I’d want to. I like my partners willing, thank you.

  His headache worsened. Wonderful. It wasn’t just his headache, it was coming from her as well. No wonder she had a pinched and sour look to her.

  Now how do I convince her that I am a Healer? Chop off Gesten’s hand and fuse it back on? I wonder if Her Majesty the Ice-Maiden here would even react to that! She and that steel-necked lover of hers deserve each other. If Urtho hadn’t sent her to me, I’d invite her to take herself and her token back to her tent.

  But outwardly, years of practice kept so much as a stray expression from crossing his face. “I am no threat to your—virtue—and I do assure you that you can relax. This is a massage table. I am to work on your back injury, and perhaps see if it is something that I can Heal. It is that simple.” He patted the table and smiled a cool and professional smile.

  She shifted her weight uneasily and moved ever so slightly away from the tent flap and toward the table.

  If that’s the best she can do, we’re going to be here all night before she gets on the damned table!

  “Massage,” he repeated, as if to a very simple child. “I am very good at it. Lady Cinnabar will not have anyone else work on her but me.”

  That earned him another couple of steps toward the table; he closed his eyes for just a moment, and counted to ten. She was turning what should have been a simple session into an ordeal for both of them!

  “If you are body-shy with a stranger, I will turn my back while you disrobe. You may drape yourself with the sheet that is folded beside the table,” he said; he pointed out the sheet to her, and turned away.

  The sound of clothing rustling told him that he had finally convinced her of his sincerity, if not his expertise.

  His head was absolutely pounding with shared pain; he shielded himself against her, and it finally ebbed a bit. That was a shame. He generally didn’t need to shield himself against a fellow-Healer, and allowing his Empathy to remain wide-open generally got him some useful information. Remaining that way also improved his sensitivity to what was going on with injuries and pain and helped him block it; before a client even realized that something hurt, he would be able to correct the problem and move on.

  Correct the problem. Well. Unfortunately, he could very well imagine why Urtho had sent the woman here. The few notes he had on her indicated some trauma in her life that she simply had not faced—something that she had done or that had been done to her. Trondi’irn were generally not so busy they disregarded their own health. There was the possibility she was punishing herself by leaving her conditions unattended, or worsening them in her mind. Oh, he had no doubt that there was a real, physical injury there as well, but the way she acted told him that this was not a healthy, well-adjusted woman. Urtho must have seen that, too; here was the implied message in his sending her here.

  You’re supposed to Heal minds, so Heal this one.

  What had Urtho said about her?

  That she had abusive parents. But the signs are all wrong for them to have been physically abusive. . . .

  Urtho was known for having a very enlightened idea of what constituted “abuse.”

  No, this woman hadn’t been mistreated or neglected physically. But emotionally—ah, there was the theory that fit the pattern.

  I would bet a bolt of silk on cold, demanding parents, who expected perfection—and got it. Very little real affection in her life, and most of it delivered when she managed, somehow, to achieve the impossible goals her parents set. Yes, that fits the picture.

  And now, she was as demanding of everyone else as her parents had been to her. More than that, she was as demanding of herself as they used to be.

  Well, that was why she would have gotten involved with an arrogant manipulator like that mage in the first place. She doesn’t see herself as “deserving” anyone who cares, so she picks someone who reminds her of what she grew up with. And then treats him the same, since she never learned to do otherwise.

  He ran his fingers across his forehead as the creaking of the table behind him told him he had managed to convince her to trust him that far. I can’t undo decades of harm in a few candlemarks. Start with the easy stuff and release the pain. Then take it from there.

  Amberdrake turned back to find her on her stomach, draped from neck to knee with the sheet, as modest as a village maiden. He selected one of the oils, one with a lavender base; that would be clean and fresh enough to help convince her that he was not going to seduce her. Then, before she could react, he turned the sheet down with brisk efficiency worthy of Gesten, poured some of the oil in his hands to warm it, then rubbed his palms together. A moment later, he was kneading the muscles of her back and shoulders.

  He had not been boasting; he was particularly good at massage. Lady Cinnabar did prefer his services to anyone else in or out of the camp. Slowly, as he worked the knots of tension out of her back and shoulders, he sensed other tension ebbing. His expertise at massage was convincing her that he was, at least in part, what he claimed to be.

  Some of the barriers she was holding against him came down. But he did not take immediate advantage of the altered situation.

  No, my dear Icicle; I intend to show you that I am everything I said I was and a lot more besides.

  You are a challenge. And I never could resist a challenge. And Urtho, damn his hide, knows that.

  When Winterhart realized that the man really did know what he was doing—at least insofar as massage was concerned—she let the fear ebb from her body. The more she relaxed, the more his hands seemed to be actually soothing away the pain in her poor back.

  Odd. I always thought massage was supposed to be painful. . . .

  In fact, it was so soothi
ng that she felt herself drifting away, not quite asleep, but certainly not quite awake. Several moments passed before she realized that the tingling sensation in her back really was something very familiar, after all. The difference was that she had never experienced it before as the recipient.

  Her eyes opened wide although she did not move. She didn’t dare. The man was Healing her, and you didn’t interrupt a Healing trance!

  “Well,” came the conversational voice from behind her. “You certainly have broken up your back in a most spectacular fashion.”

  He was talking! How could you trance and talk at the same time?

  “Your main problem is with one of the pads between the vertebrae,” the voice continued. “It’s squashed rather messily. I’m putting back what I can; if I can get the inflammation down, that will clear the way to stop most of the pain you’ve been enduring.”