“Dragora!” A low roar caused the earth to tremble.
“Leyla.”
A white puff of smoke rose into the air.
Jarrett took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and urged the horse into the maw of the enormous cavern.
Dragora sat on her haunches at the entrance to the cave, a freshly killed carcass at her feet. The dragon’s tail, as long as its body and forked on the end, swished back and forth, stirring dust and ash.
Jarrett stared up at the dragon. Wide-set, intelligent yellow eyes stared back at him. Knowing he might be courting death, Jarrett urged the gray nearer to the great horned beast.
“Dragora.” Slowly, carefully, he lifted his hand and touched the scaly hide. It was warm and rock-hard beneath his palm. “Guard my beloved well,” Jarrett murmured, and urged the horse down the path, past the blackened trees and the charred skeletons.
He was halfway down the mountain when he reined the gray to a halt. He would spend the night here, he thought. One last night on her mountain, breathing the air of her homeland, sleeping on ground that she had walked on.
Unsaddling the gelding, he tethered the horse to a nearby tree, then sat cross-legged on a patch of short blue grass, gazing sightlessly into the distance.
He would never see her again.
The three moons rose high in the sky, their dazzling silver light reminding him of Leyla’s hair. Lying on his back, his hands folded beneath his head, he gazed at the stars, his mind conjuring up images of fathomless blue eyes and an angel-woman’s soft smile. He thought of all the times she had come to him in his cell, remembering how he had yearned to see her face just once, remembering how her touch had soothed his bruised flesh and eased the torment in his soul.
How many times had she drawn his pain, his despair, into herself? Never complaining, never letting him know how much anguish it caused her to absorb his pain. So many long, lonely nights when he had lain in his lonely cell, strapped to a hard metal table or chained to the floor, yearning for her touch, the sound of her voice, the warmth of her presence. She had made him whole, in body and spirit, over and over again.
And now she was gone, forever lost to him.
Heartsick and soul-sick, he closed his eyes, knowing he would dream of her, ache for her, for the rest of his life.
Heart pounding with fear, he held his breath as they lowered him into the pool. The water was cold, chilling his bare flesh. He felt it creeping up his legs, shriveling his manhood, rising up his chest, past his neck, seeping into the hood. He held his breath, his body thrashing wildly. Why didn’t they pull him up? His lungs were on fire, his heart was pounding with soul-shattering fear. Never before had they left him under water so long. Blackness swirled before his eyes, darker than the inside of the hood, deeper than the pool.
They were going to let him drown.
He opened his mouth to scream, and his throat filled with dark, cold water.
“Leyla!” His mind screamed her name, and then he was drifting down, down, lost in eternal darkness…
“Jarrett! Jarrett! Wake up, I am here.”
He struggled through layers of blackness to the surface, following the sound of her voice. He felt the warmth of her hands upon his shoulders, felt the dampness of her tears, like raindrops, on his cheeks.
“Leyla?” He opened his eyes to find her kneeling beside him. “Am I still dreaming?”
“No. Oh, Jarrett!” She threw her arms around him and held him close, wishing she could do something to banish the awful nightmares that haunted his dreams.
Jarrett wrapped his arms around her waist, gripping her tightly as he buried his face in the hollow of her breasts, breathing in the warm, sweet scent of her. His heart was still pounding, his body shivering convulsively as the last images of the dream faded. It had been so real, so very real. The cold water, the darkness…
“Leyla, what are you doing here?”
“I ran away.”
Her words scattered the last vestiges of the nightmare. Pulling back a little, he gazed into her eyes. “You ran away?”
She nodded, her blue eyes dark and solemn.
“Leyla…” He laid his hand against her cheek. “Are you sure this is what you want?” He hesitated a moment, his gaze probing hers. “That I’m what you want?”
“Very sure.”
“They’ll come after you.”
“Yes.”
“We’d better go then.” Jarrett frowned as a sigh of relief whispered past her lips. “What is it?” he asked.
“I was afraid thee might turn me away.”
“Why would you think that?”
Her shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. How could she tell him that she had been afraid he wouldn’t want her, afraid that, as much as he desired her, he would not want to spend the rest of his life with her.
He saw the doubts in the clear blue depths of her eyes. “I don’t think I could live without you,” Jarrett said quietly. “Nor would I want to.”
Her smile was radiant, her eyes filled with love and tenderness. “Kiss me, my Lord Jarrett,” she entreated softly. “Just one kiss before we go.”
“One or a thousand, beloved,” he murmured as he drew her close. “You have only to ask.”
Gently, his lips touched hers, and in that kiss was his pledge of infinite love and loyalty, and her wholehearted reply.
They traveled the rest of that night and into the morning, leaving the Mountains of the Blue Mist far behind.
At noon, they were well beyond the Cyrus River. A short time later, Jarrett reined his horse to a halt.
Dismounting, he lifted Leyla from the saddle of her mount. For a long moment, he held her close, his hands lightly caressing her arms, her back, his gaze intent upon her face, as if to assure himself she was really there. Not a dream, not an image of hope conjured from the depths of his despair, but a flesh and blood woman.
“We’ll rest here awhile,” he said. Reluctantly, he let her go. “I’ll gather wood for a fire.”
“Jarrett.” She threw her arms around him and held him tight.
“It will be all right,” he murmured, but in his heart he wondered if she would come to regret her hasty decision to follow him. He had nothing to offer her, nothing but his love and a solitary castle overlooking the Azure Sea.
They were on the road again within the hour. Jarrett pushed the horses hard, driven by an overpowering need to reach Greyebridge Castle. Tor would come after Leyla, he had no doubt of that. His only hope was that the Maje would turn back when he reached the Cyrus River rather than expose himself to possible capture by the Fen or by one of the roving bands of flesh peddlers who would sell him to the highest bidder.
He traveled warily, knowing that the prospect of being captured by the flesh peddlers was a possibility they had to face as well.
The next several days passed quickly. They traveled swiftly, pausing only for food and to rest the horses. Nights, they took advantage of whatever shelter they could find. Jarrett slept with one hand on his sword, never completely relaxing his guard. Always, he was aware of the danger they were in, and of the beautiful woman who slept peacefully at his side. He was awed by her faith in him, her trust in his ability to protect her from harm.
Her nearness was a constant torment, a never-ending temptation. His arms yearned to hold her, his hands wanted only to bury themselves in the soft halo of her hair, his lips hungered for the taste of her. But he could not take her by force, nor could he bring himself to beg for her favors. She was not a woman of low character, not some concubine to be used and cast aside. He cared for her too deeply to defile her, loved her too desperately to betray her trust.
He looked at her now, sleeping beside him, her hair spread over her shoulders like a mantle of liquid silver, her lashes like pale shadows against her cheeks. Innocent in the ways of love between a man and a woman, she slept on, completely unaware of the twin demons of need and desire that pulsed within him, causing him to ache in a way that was both bitter and swe
et.
At Greyebridge, he would ask for her hand in wedlock. He would not touch her until their union had been blessed by the Church. He would wait, he vowed, wait until she was his by right of marriage, even if it killed him.
Jarrett knew a moment of blessed relief when they reached the Fenduzian Coast. Away in the distance, across the Azure Sea, lay the green-and-gold Isle of Gweneth.
He stared out at the calm water. Once, he had loved the vast blue expanse of the sea, the quiet lapping of the waves as they kissed the sandy shore, but now, thanks to the months he’d spent in the Pavilion, the idea of being on the water filled him with trepidation. All too clearly, he remembered the horror of being lowered into a deep black pool, defenseless, powerless.
Well, there was no help for it. If he wanted to go home, they must go by boat. And since he dared not book passage on one of the large Fenduzian ships for fear of being recognized, they would have to trust one of the local fishermen to take them across.
Jarrett could not disguise his apprehension as he stepped into an ancient-looking vessel the following morning, even though the old seaman who owned the boat assured them it was quite safe.
Jarrett kept his eyes focused ahead, his heart pounding with excitement as the tiny speck in the distance grew larger.
He was going home.
They reached Gweneth late in the afternoon. Leyla gazed up at the huge old castle that stood like a lonely sentinel on a windswept promontory.
Upon reaching the coast, Jarrett paid the old fisherman, then unloaded their belongings. Slinging their packs over his shoulder, he started up the long gravel path that led to the castle. The countryside, which had once supported any number of horses, gentlesheep and goats, seemed deserted. The cottages they passed stood in disrepair, doors askew, woven thatches fallen in.
Greyebridge Castle had been named for the massive dark gray stones of which it was made. He knew the rough texture of each stone, had scratched his name on more than one when he’d been a boy. A ragged banner woven of red-and-black and emblazoned with the head of a white stag fluttered from the gatehouse.
Leyla glanced at Jarrett as they crossed the drawbridge and entered the bailey, disquieted by the absence of people. Surely a castle as large as this should have housed hundreds, yet it was as quiet as a tomb. The yew trees, the shrubs, the bushes were all in a sad state of neglect.
As they approached the keep itself, she saw a huge yellow mastiff, its bones showing clearly through its mangy hide, sleeping in the shade of a rotting tree. From off in the distance, she heard the unhappy lowing of a cow.
“Where is everyone?” she asked.
Jarrett shook his head as a feeling of uneasiness settled over him. When he’d been arrested eight months ago, the castle had been home to over three hundred people. Now, the gatehouse was deserted. There were no sounds of life from the stable. The gardens, which had been his mother’s delight, had gone to seed. The only sign of life was a dog that would have been better off dead.
Resolutely, he opened an iron-strapped wooden door and stepped into the Great Hall.
The silence within the keep was absolute. For a moment, he stood just inside the door, his gaze sweeping the hall. Once, the room had been filled with intricately carved tables and chairs, couches covered in rich damask and velvet. Enormous candelabras that held hundreds of candles had provided light. Huge tapestries had decorated the high stone walls.
Now the room was virtually empty. The rushes were old and dirty and a monstrous cobweb fluttered from one corner of the ceiling.
Face set in grim lines, Jarrett crossed the room, his footsteps echoing loudly as he approached the spiral staircase that led upstairs to the family’s living quarters. Leyla trailed behind him.
His steps were heavy as he made his way to the fourth floor. “Sherriza?” he called as he reached the landing. “Mother?”
The sound of cautious footsteps drew his attention. Turning, he saw a small, bent figure moving slowly toward him.
“Tannya?”
“Lord Jarrett!” She hurried toward him, her face wreathed in smiles. “Praise the All Father, is it really you?”
“It’s me, Tannya,” Jarrett said gently. He gazed down into the wrinkled face of the woman who had been his nurse. She seemed to have aged twenty years in the past eight months.
“We feared you were dead,” the old woman remarked. Lifting a corner of her apron, she dabbed the tears from her eyes.
“There were times I wished I was,” Jarrett muttered under his breath. “Where’s my mother?”
“In her room, Jeri. She’s…she’s not well.”
Jeri. It had been his nursery name, one he’d thought never to hear again. “What’s wrong with her?”
Tannya shook her head. “I fear she has lost the will to live.” Fresh tears glistened in the old woman’s pale-blue eyes. “Everyone has left Greyebridge. We’ve nothing to eat, no wood to warm us now that the furniture is gone. The axe is so heavy…”
Jarrett put his arm around her frail shoulders. “It will be all right,” he said reassuringly. “There’s food in one of the packs downstairs. Will you prepare something while I see my mother?”
Tannya nodded. She took a few steps, then stopped as she saw Leyla standing in the shadows. “Who is this?”
“Her name is Leyla. She’s my…my friend. Go along now, Tannya. There will be time for explanations later.”
He watched his old nurse out of sight, then, taking Leyla by the hand, he walked down the hall to his mother’s chambers.
The room was cold and dark. No furniture remained save the huge bed in which he’d been born. The hangings, once a bright cerulean-blue, were in need of cleaning.
Fearing what he would see, he made his way to the bedside. His mother lay like a skeleton upon the bed. Her skin, once clear and fair, was now tinged with gray. Her hands, once plump and dimpled, looked like claws as they moved restlessly over the bedclothes. Her hair, once as glossy as a raven’s wing, lay in limp strands upon the pillow.
“Mother…”
Her eyelids flickered open. “Tannya, is that you?”
“It’s Jarrett.”
“Jarrett?” She stared up at him, her gray eyes vague and unfocused. “No. That cannot be. My son is dead.” A shadow of a smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “I will join him soon.”
Jarrett turned toward Leyla, his eyes filled with silent entreaty. “Am I too late?”
“I will do what I can,” Leyla murmured. Moving closer to the bed, she placed her left hand on the woman’s brow, her right hand over the woman’s heart. Eyes closed, she summoned the Power, felt it swell within her veins, felt its heat pulse in her hands.
Leyla groaned softly as she absorbed the woman’s unhappiness, the pain of a broken heart, the weakness of a body that had been denied sufficient food almost to the point of death.
Jarrett stood at the foot of the bed, awed by the miracle taking place before him. He saw the lines of pain disappear from his mother’s face, saw the color bloom in her cheeks.
But at what a price! Leyla’s face was etched with deep lines of pain. A soft moan escaped her lips and then, as if devoid of all strength, she slid to the floor.
With a low cry, Jarrett rushed to her side. Lifting Leyla in his arms, he hugged her close, knew a moment of heart-wrenching relief when he realized she was still breathing. He glanced over his shoulder at his mother and when he saw that she was sleeping peacefully, he hurried from the room.
He carried Leyla down the hall to the room that had been his and placed her reverently on his bed. After covering her with a heavy quilt, he sat beside her and took her hands in his, willing his strength into her body. Hardly aware of what he was doing, he began to pray, quietly beseeching the All Father to spare the life of the woman he loved.
He lost track of time as he sat there. He was vaguely aware of Tannya coming and going in the room, drawing the draperies across the window to shut out the night, bringing him a plate of food which
he never touched.
Hours passed, or it might have been days. He continued to hold Leyla’s hands in his, frightened by her stillness. On the verge of despair, he knelt by the bedside, lifting his voice toward heaven in a desperate plea, begging the All Father to take his life instead of hers.
It was near dawn when Jarrett felt her hand move in his, heard the welcome sound of her voice calling his name.
“I am here, beloved,” he said, hardly able to speak for the joy that pounded in his heart. He rose from his knees and sat on the edge of the bed. “I thought…I was afraid…”
She smiled up at him. “I should have warned thee,” she said contritely.
“Warned me?”
“When the healing is very severe, it drains my strength. Your mother was very near death.” Leyla sat up, her expression worried. “Is thy mother well?”
“I don’t know.”
“She’s very well,” came a voice from the doorway.
Jarrett glanced over his shoulder as his mother entered the room. Gone was the gray, waxy look. Her skin was clear and unblemished, her eyes were bright, her hair as lustrous as polished ebony.
Jarrett squeezed Leyla’s hand. “Bless you, Leyla,” he whispered fervently.
Rising, he took his mother into his arms and held her close, a soft sigh escaping his lips as his mother hugged him in return.
“Welcome home, Jeri,” Sherriza said, her voice thick with unshed tears. “I never thought to see you again.”
“Nor I you.”
“So,” she said, giving him one last hug, “who is this child I find in your bed?”
“This is Leyla. It was her touch that healed you.”
“Ah, a Maje. I have never met one before. Welcome to our home, Leyla. I regret that I have little to offer you, but what I have is yours.”
“I require nothing in return, my Lady,” Leyla replied, struggling to hide her embarrassment at being found in Jarrett’s bed. “It is my duty to heal whenever I can.”
“Nevertheless, I owe you a debt I can never repay.”
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