Watching Gael would have been a thing of beauty but for the sight of blood and hollow thunk of iron on bone as his sword leapt to service. He swept across the platform with seeming ease, swinging and connecting skulls, legs, arms, chests. When the quarters were too close for his sword to be of use, he twisted necks and pummelled with his fists and elbows.
When those at the back knew they'd lost and were losing their comrades, they scuttled for the other stairs.
She wasn't sure what she could do in her condition to help, and with no ready weapon to hand, but she stepped in front of the stairs anyway, thinking she could at least slow their escape.
The first of them launched a punch that was both awkward and poorly aimed. Luckily it also threw him off balance and she used his momentum to trip him over her leg and bring her elbow down on his neck. She had no hope against the flood of arms and chests that came after that. She did her best to avoid what blades she saw and concentrated on defense rather than attack, thinking that she only had to survive the remaining assailants and allow Gael to do his work. She knew at least three had got passed her by the time she heard the sickening cracks of metal against skull more clearly.
Eyes glazed in front of her of the men Gael was even now killing. He'd made his way nearly all the way through the archers. When she caught sight of his face, it was bright as a newly forged blade. His eyes were almost mad in their delight; the short rash of beard he'd left unshaved, filled with dirt and blood, no longer looked blond but was the color of old rust. One cheekbone swelled beneath his glower. Bodies littered the stairs and on the platform; those who still lived had already made a hasty retreat past Alaysha.
All but one.
He was a young man, Alaysha could tell; his beard held the soft fuzz of new manhood. Gael towered over him, sword hanging, dripping at his side. His chest heaved with extended and expended effort. Alaysha thought Gael would kill the boy--she wasn't sure he could rise from the battle fog quickly enough to see how useful a captive would be. Someone had sent them, obviously. Yuri would want to know who.
Even as she was about to shout at him to spare the boy's life, an arrow bloomed in the youth's throat. His collapse against Gael made the warning unnecessary.
At sight of the shaft still quivering from the strike in the boy's neck, Gael's head swung toward her like a bull scoping out a new charge. His eyes rested on her, quickly running down her body, lingering on her stomach, and then darting to someplace behind her.
Someone was in back of her. A dozen strides away or more. She turned. Gave quick scan of the yard, ready to fight or flee.
And rested on Yenic.
Chapter 3
Alaysha thought she would collapse at sight of him, so great was the relief, the fury, and the outright pleasure that flooded her. Her first thought was to thank The Deities for his safe return. Her second was a much stronger impulse, one that wanted to demand that those same deities strike him down where he stood.
She knew Gael felt the same when he blustered by her.
"Don't," she said, knowing even as she did so that he was far past hearing.
Yenic's expression of victory died on his face as Gael squared off in front of him.
"You stupid boy. We could have questioned him." Gael clenched his fists at his sides and Alaysha could tell from the tightness of his back and shoulders that he was working at keeping calm. She shifted sideways, hoping to see Aedus behind Yenic somewhere, but realized that she felt a long trickle of wet running down her hip and that the effort of movement made her feel as though she had ice in her veins.
Her hands went immediately to her belly, fingers searching for the wound, hoping against every hope that she'd not torn the threadings. No such good fortune would be hers this day. While the raucous sounds of the two men arguing became more of a cloudy din in her ears, she had to fight the renewed blackness that wanted control over her sight. She'd done too much, of course. In the face of fire, however, any less would have meant death.
She didn't want to, but she had to let her legs go. It was that or pass out from the effort of standing. She opted to let her knees take her weight, and for her palms on the earth to keep her face from striking dirt. She could catch her breath if she let her head hang.
The sound of Yenic's startled shout wasn't enough to tear her gaze away from the ant that was industriously making its way home with what appeared to be a gob of flesh.
She felt hands on her shoulders. "Alaysha," she heard. "Alaysha. You're bleeding."
She peered up at Yenic's face. His eyes, still the color of honey, still sparking somewhere in the depths like a lazy fire. How she loved looking into those eyes.
"You're back," she said, but she didn't hear relief in her voice, only pain and anger. She felt sure he'd think it the pain of her wound.
He must have seen the shifting thoughts travel her face; his own took on an expression of confusion and hurt.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
Gael's scornful voice sounded over Alaysha's back saving her from blurting out that she was hurt, that he hurt her.
"What's wrong?" Gael bellowed. "She's hurt, you fool."
It wasn't what Yenic meant and Alaysha knew it. She also knew Gael wouldn't understand. She saw him twist to look past Alaysha's shoulder into what was a very red, very condescending face.
She tried to push herself to her haunches with the aim of standing.
"Let me help," Yenic said. His palm on her back felt hot, too hot for mere body temperature but then he was always so, she remembered.
Dirt got scuffed into her eye and she yelped. Gael's boots, toeing Yenic to the ground and shuffling closer to Alaysha. She felt herself being lifted, those meaty hands beneath her knees and shoulders, her body pressed against his. She caught him looking down at her even as he spoke to Yenic.
"You go to Yuri. Tell him you killed his only means of finding out who ordered this attack. I'll see to the witch." His tone sounded harsh, even to Alaysha's ears but she'd rarely felt safer. She wished it could be Yenic who held her, but she knew he belonged to his mother – the witch she had yet to meet, who knew the secrets of controlling the power. She tried to stifle any sense of relief she felt when Yenic started to argue, but then it didn't matter because Gael was striding effortlessly away from the curtain and past the well. He smelled of sweat and blood and she could feel his heart beating against her ribcage with such mad frenzy she understood just how natural his ability for war was. How much his body needed it.
The only thing that moved as frantically was her own stomach, twisting on itself.
"I don't feel so well," she admitted.
He made an odd sound. "You've torn the threads. Saxa had thought you well healed. You must not be good stock. Good stock heals better than that."
"I tore them saving you."
"You tore them getting in my way."
She was incensed. "If I hadn't knocked you down, you'd have been shot." She glared at him, but all she could see were his nostrils. Both flared angrily.
"You threw yourself at me. I had to roll over so you wouldn't get shot."
"I remember it differently."
"Remember it as you will."
She could feel herself slipping. "You're dropping me," she said, but barely heard her own complaint; she thought the clouds must have drifted over the sun, blocking out the light, then a tiny piercing glare crept back into her vision. Gael was looking down at her.
"I won't drop you no matter how slippery you get."
It was such an odd thing to say, she couldn't help trying a weak smile.
"Don't leave, Witch. Stay with me."
She had nowhere to go, did she? But the way he called her witch this time sounded different, almost worried. She had to work to keep her eyes open now that the pain was coming back. Strange, she hadn't felt it during battle, but then she'd heard plenty of stories of warriors hacking mercilessly at the enemy even as their own bellies were torn open. The battle beast, some called it, the drive within
to survive even as death was creeping upon your limbs, to take life as though it could return yours to you. She realized then why Gael's tone had sounded so worried. And why Yenic, Deities take him for his lies, had looked so concerned.
"Am I dying?" she asked, afraid and at the same time hopeful that Yenic's concern might really have meant her father had been wrong about his intent, that he really did care about her.
"No, dear girl."
Dear girl? Saxa's voice. Must be. And indeed, it was feminine, she realized as the voice came again. She must have passed out.
"Just suffering the wound spirit. Your body is complaining about its injury."
She felt herself being lowered again onto the bed and realized as Gael eased away that his tunic was bright red where she'd rested against it. So he was right. She wasn't a good healer. She felt such shame she wanted everyone to go away and leave her be.
"Get the shaman, Gael." Saxa pulled at Alaysha's feet and raised them onto a bunch of furs and pillows. "Stay with me, Alaysha. Are you cold?"
Alaysha could barely nod, but Saxa caught it and threw the fur over her. It didn't matter. It held no warmth and the shivering threatened to make her teeth click together.
All that healing, all that work, all that killing and fighting, and for it to come to this: such pain and nausea and cold from a few torn stitches. Deities, the cold. She couldn't stop shivering to save her soul. What if this time death stole her? She wouldn't see Aedus again. Or Barruch. She'd never know who her people truly were or why her father had wanted them all dead. Worse still, she'd not get to feel Yenic's hand on hers again, hear his voice in her ear, his lips on hers…
Fear crept in before she could think of anything else but dying, and just as quickly, she could taste the salt in Saxa's tears.
The power had come again and this time, she wasn't sure she could stop it.
Chapter 4
It was the tears that reminded her. She knew the water she tasted was from Saxa's tears barely shed before they were psyched from her. Sweet deities, not Saxa. Alaysha thought of her dream and focused as quickly as she could on the one's her nohma had collected those years ago. "There's magic in tears, Saxa had said, and nohma had believed it true. Why else would she have used them to bond her to Yenic.
That was the memory she'd struggled to remember since she'd awoken. Tears. It was no coincidence, not in this moment, to remember it. And whether it was the unknown deities she'd heard her nohma pray to all those years that gave her back the memory, or her nohma herself, didn't matter.
She let herself taste them, yes, but she worked very hard to send the fluid back from where it came. Saxa wept from fear. Alaysha psyched from fear. There had to be balance there somewhere. Yenic had told her it was about balance. If he could be believed, then to combat the power of hatred, you used the power of love. To psych fluid from the living, you had to want death.
From clouded eyes, she watched a mist collect and hover in the room. It seemed to take long moments, but Alaysha knew from experience that she was going under like a woman sinking into a bath of warmth, that the power was tricking her in terms of time. She knew that within three or five breaths it would be over.
She didn't need the water. She didn't want it. What she wanted was for Saxa to live. For the water to come from elsewhere if it must, to return to the poor woman even as it seeped away.
Surely there must be some way to stop it.
Gael burst into view and was pulling Saxa away just as the mist let go its burden and sent a spray of water in droplets all over the chamber. His curses were enough to make Alaysha cringe where she lay and she came back to herself so quickly she could have been assaulted with cold water.
"What good is a witch who can't control her own power?" He bellowed, and Alaysha couldn't disagree.
She felt someone's hand on her: the shaman's, it seemed, fleeting over her belly, probing the threadings.
"Not as bad as we thought," he murmured. "More the insult to a healing psyche brought on the spell, than the wound. See? It's already clotting. Quite nicely too." He was mumbling to himself it seemed, because he spoke back as though he was the second man listening. "We do thread well. And the balsam has done the trick. Oh yes. But why so much blood for such a small reopening? Oh. We see a second wound. Superficial only. Yes. It begs more threading."
His finger poked into a newly sore area and took Alaysha by surprise. She let go a shriek that made her wish she had been able to keep her mouth clamped shut.
The result was a pinch on the cheek equally as painful and she thought he was doing it deliberately, but dared not complain.
"We don't see why the Emir keeps her and not the other," he said. "Far too much bother, this one."
"I can hear you."
"She thinks it matters to us if she can hear. She does. She believes we shame ourselves, but a shaman such as Theron feels no shame. Why should we?"
"Because a witch has power." She managed between gritted teeth. It seemed now she was warm, she was too warm.
"Such power. Yes. She needs a shaman twice in ten turns. It's a good thing this Theron has no such power."
She heard something strange in his voice, as though he was forcing himself to speak and didn't like it one bit. His callous manner made Alaysha want to strike at him, but she knew he was working to make her whole. That alone was worth allowing him to keep some dignity. When he began threading something sharp and painful into her side, she quickly rethought her decision.
He chuckled aloud and long when she sucked in a breath to brace against the stitching. She caught his eye as he pulled through the last of the threads, and she thought she detected concern then decided she'd not seen enough concern in her lifetime to recognize it.
"Is Saxon all right?" She asked. She had a sudden moment of panic that the baby hadn't lived through the episode. He very nearly hadn't made it through the last one.
The shaman let his gaze lower to her belly, then covered her over carefully with the linen tunic Saxa had helped her into just days before. It was a gift to replace the heavy leather one that had gotten ruined during Drahl's attack, but now this one too was all bloody.
"I asked –"
"We heard." He looked directly at her. "Saxon has not yet returned from the nursery. The witch harmed only the one who cared for her in the first place."
"Harmed?" Her voice was so shrill, she barely recognized it.
The shaman pushed himself to his feet and cast an inquiring look about the cottage.
"Looks contained, though, does it not? Yes. Yes. It does, however it's very, very wet." He scowled down at her. "Would that the witch had the power to clean her mess. Now. It's off to see the good wife. And the Emir. He will want to know of it. Know of it? No doubt he knows already and would come to strike the witch down, and this Theron with her if we didn't beat a hasty retreat from this nest of ill-used power."
She wanted to protest but hadn't the heart. It was truth, all of it. Even the words he answered to himself. She decided to let him go while she waited for Yuri. If he wasn't angry enough to see her killed, finally, he'd at least want to chastise her into full guilt and shame – and no doubt find a way to use that to his benefit.
She knew the old wound was again sealed and balsamed – it stunk and stuck to the wrappings so she could feel it when she moved, and the new wound had been merely stitched back together and given a few threads. Superficial, he'd said – that meant she didn't need to worry about it pulling apart and bleeding her out. She must have gotten it from one of the archer's blades during their full-on escape.
Just standing, even supporting herself by holding onto the table, made her feel more able to withstand what she knew was coming.
Yuri was moments behind Theron, and Alaysha was grateful she'd thought enough to work herself to her feet. Gael was behind him and for some reason, his face was far redder than Yuri's. His eyes far angrier. But he said nothing, merely stood behind Yuri as though to protect his back from anyone thoughtlessly,
or intentionally entering.
She wasn't prepared for Yuri's reaction at all.
It's good Gael thought to bring you here," he said, and Gael shuffled his feet, doing his best to avoid Alaysha's eye. And while she was unprepared for Yuri's reaction, she was flat-out shocked at her own.
"You care that little for the woman who bore your heir?" She felt the quake taking her legs and had to shift in place to make them believe she was moving of her own accord, consciously making the choice. "You are relieved I put her in danger?" She looked him squarely in the eyes and asked the question that threatened to buckle her knees altogether.
"Is she dead?"
When he didn't answer Alaysha sought Gael's face. He'd not be able to keep that from his eyes, no matter how stoic his expression.
"Is she dead?" she asked him. The reward of a nearly imperceptible shake of his head nearly stole her strength anyway.
It seemed that despite answering, Gael would wait for Yuri to speak. No one said anything for a time and Alaysha wanted nothing more than to collapse again onto the bed. So much for being a trained warrior – nearly felled twice by mere bit of steel.
Yuri finally bid her sit and took a chair himself. He faced off against her across the table.
"Saxa is fine. But she has lost much fluid, so I have a woman feeding her water and honey until the shaman reaches her."
"You had the shaman come to me first?" It was almost too much to stand.
"Theron was nearly here anyway when your Yenic –"
"He's not my Yenic."
Yuri took a moment to give her a lazy smile of satisfaction, then pressed on.
"When Yenic came to me with news of the attack, I knew Gael would keep you safe."
"And Saxa in danger."
"She's not in danger. She is a casualty like many others. She has courage, that one." His voice was filled with pride.
Alaysha was ashamed. She couldn't stand remembering the paths her power had taken trying to steal into Saxa's pores. She did her best to block them from coming to mind. "I know."
Blood Witch Page 4