Warrior's Lady

by Amanda Ashley

She shook her head as she glanced around the barren cell. The walls and floor were made of stone. An iron-bound table fitted with leather straps stood to one side. There were no windows, no other source of light save for the candle she held in her hand. A covered chamber pot stood in one corner, its malodorous smell permeating the air.

  Placing the candle in a holder near the door, Sherriza removed the hood from Jarrett’s head and tossed it aside. “Beastly thing,” she muttered.

  “You should not have come here.” Jarrett looked away, unable to bear the pity in his mother’s eyes. “This is not how I wish to be remembered.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Rorke wants me out of the way. Permanently out of the way.”

  “For all his threats, he would not dare! Not without the King’s knowledge and approval.”

  Jarrett met his mother’s horrified stare with a level gaze. “You know he would,” he replied quietly. “Have you seen Leyla?”

  “She sends her love, Jeri. She would have come if she could.”

  “He means to have her.” He ground the words through clenched teeth. The thought of Rorke holding Leyla, touching her, possessing her, was like a blade twisting ever deeper in his gut.

  “I feared as much, but there is nothing I can do. Nothing you can do but hope he tires of her quickly and sends her home.”

  Cursing under his breath, Jarrett tugged against the heavy chains that shackled him to the wall, heedless of the pain as the thick iron cuffs cut into his flesh. “I’ve got to get out of here!”

  “Jeri, stop,” Sherriza begged. She placed her hands on his wrists, hoping to stop his frenzied struggles, sickened by the warm stickiness of his blood beneath her fingertips. “Please, stop.”

  With a sigh of resignation, he slumped against the wall.

  “Listen to me,” Sherriza urged. “Rorke is sending me to Aldane. I’ll talk to Morrad. He’ll heed what I say. Somehow, we’ll get word to Tyrell. I’m certain he doesn’t know the whole story.”

  Jarrett’s gaze rested on his mother’s face. “There won’t be time.”

  Sherriza shook her head, fearing he was right, yet not wanting to believe that the man who had once been her son’s best friend was capable of such treachery.

  “Jeri, don’t give up hope. I’ll…” She bit back her words as the captain of the guard entered the cell.

  “It is time to go, my Lady,” Taark said.

  “Jeri…don’t despair,” Sherriza begged as Taark led her out of the cell and gave her into the keeping of his men.

  She glanced over her shoulder, her heart aching at the thought of leaving her son in such a dismal place. And yet, more terrible than the thought of leaving him was the thought that she might never see him again. And then they were leading her away.

  Turning back into the room, Taark picked up the hood, running his fingers over the heavy black fabric for a few moments.

  Like most men who visited the Pavilion, he had tried the hood on, and immediately taken it off. There was something malevolent about that bit of black cloth, something that called up a man’s most primal fears.

  He stared at Jarrett, saw the look of dread in the rebel’s eyes as he stepped closer and then, with a shrug, he dropped the heavy black hood over the prisoner’s head and snugged it down tight.

  Jarrett’s muscles tensed as the hood settled into place. He took a deep breath, willing himself to relax as the material molded itself to his face. Stifling, sinister, it blocked every trace of light, filling his mind with images of the darkest corner of Hadra.

  He bit back the urge to beg Taark to dispense with the hood for one night only, knowing the captain of the guard would take it as a sign of weakness. No doubt Taark would be amused by such a request. But how could anyone know the horror of the hood unless they’d worn it?

  Taark stared at the hooded man for a moment longer, feeling a grudging sympathy for the Gweneth rebel, and then he blew out the candle and left the cell, closing the door behind him.

  Whistling softly, he made his way down the narrow corridor, suddenly anxious to feel the sunlight on his face.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Jarrett’s head came up as the cell door swung open. He heard the muffled sound of footsteps as someone entered the room, felt the faint smoky heat of a torch as it was placed in the holder to the left of the doorway.

  And then he heard Rorke’s voice, low and mocking. “So, my Lord Jarrett, I hope you find your lodgings to your liking.”

  Jarrett stiffened as he felt the hard edge of fine Fenduzian steel against his chest.

  “Are you asleep under there?” Rorke asked, tugging on the edge of the hood. “Perhaps this will wake you.”

  Jarrett sucked in a deep breath as Rorke dragged the tip of the sword across his chest. He shuddered as the cold steel pierced his flesh like frozen fire, bit down on the inside of his cheek as the warm sticky wetness of his blood trailed in the wake of the blade.

  “Still nothing to say?” Rorke asked, resting the point of the blade in the hollow of Jarrett’s throat.

  “What do you wish to hear, Rorke?”

  “Ah, so you can speak.” Rorke lifted the blade, then drew the point down the length of Jarrett’s chest to rest against his groin. “Yes, I believe I will have you gelded,” Rorke mused. “It will prove a pleasant diversion on a dreary evening.”

  Jarrett silently cursed the hood that kept him from seeing his enemy’s face. “What do you want of me?”

  “A direct question,” Rorke remarked, sheathing his sword. “I’ll give you a direct answer. I want Greyebridge. I’ve wanted it ever since I was old enough to know it was to be yours.”

  “Why? You have lands and holdings of your own.”

  Rorke made a sound of derision as he jerked the mask from Jarrett’s head. “It all belongs to Darrla. I want a plot of ground that is mine, only mine.”

  “There are other castles you can have.”

  “I want Greyebridge and I mean to have it.” Rorke fingered the hideous scar on his cheek. “I’ve never forgiven you for this. Or for Caandis. Or for those hellish days I spent in a Serimite dungeon. I want Greyebridge.” Rorke paused, and then nodded. “And I want the crown.”

  “The crown!” Jarrett exclaimed softly. “You are even more ambitious than I supposed.”

  Rorke nodded. “I want it all,” he admitted. “Only two things stand between me and the throne. Tyrell. And Darrla.”

  Jarrett took a deep breath, fighting to keep his growing anxiety under control. “Tyrell won’t live much longer. When he dies, you’ll rule with Darrla.”

  “I don’t want to share the throne. With Darrla out of the way, Jerrian is next in line. But he’s just a boy and the crown will be mine.” Rorke frowned thoughtfully. “The King is old. A bit of poison in his ale and none will be the wiser.”

  “What of Darrla?”

  “What of her? Women are easily disposed of, even sisters to the King.”

  The man was mad, Jarrett thought. He must be mad to plot not only the death of his wife, but the King’s as well.

  Jarrett took a deep breath. He had no fear of death for himself, only fear for what would become of those he loved.

  “What of my mother?” he asked.

  “She sails for Aldane.”

  “And Leyla?”

  Clasping his hands behind his back, Rorke walked the length of the narrow chamber and back again. It was a dismal little cell, cold and dark, heavy with the smell of sweat and blood and excrement.

  Jarrett felt his heart pound with fear. “What of Leyla?” he repeated.

  “She is my guest. I find her to be a woman of rare beauty. She would make a fine queen, don’t you think?” He nodded, pleased with the idea. “She is so lovely, so young. So easily molded. And since she is not one of us, she would never be a threat to me or to the throne.”

  “Don’t touch her, Rorke, I warn you!”

  Rorke’s laughter filled the small cell. “You warn me!” He drew his blade
and slapped the flat of it across Jarrett’s chest. “You insolent knave, there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

  Rorke smiled, pleased with his cunning. “Yes,” he mused aloud. “I shall have it all. And when I am King, I shall move the throne from Heth to Greyebridge, and I will rule from there, with Leyla at my side.”

  A harsh cry of rage was torn from Jarrett’s throat as he strained against the shackles that bound his arms and legs to the cold stone wall.

  And with that rage came a deep and abiding fear that Rorke would do as he threatened. The man was capable of murder. He had killed Caandis, he had killed the Aldanite women and children in Greyebridge chapel, thereby stilling their tongues forever. He would not hesitate to kill his wife if he thought it would further his ambition. And Tyrell was old, so old. No one would suspect foul play if he should be found dead in his chambers.

  “Rorke, don’t do it. I beg of you, let Leyla return to her own people.”

  “Aye.” Rorke smiled. “Beg me, my Lord Jarrett,” he said with a sadistic smile. “I should like that.”

  “I’ll do whatever you ask, just let her go in peace. She’s a gentle woman, Rorke, she’ll never be happy at court.”

  Rorke yawned. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

  “Unchain me, and I’ll go down on my knees if that’s what it takes. Only promise me you’ll let her go.”

  “I make no promises now. I shall wait until I have taken her to my bed. If she pleases me, I shall keep her. If not, I might let her go. Then again, I might not.” Rorke smiled smugly, his eyes cold and cruel. “Whatever happens to her, you will not be here to see it.”

  “Rorke! By Hadra, you’ll never be free of me if you hurt her.”

  “You have gall enough for ten men, my Lord Jarrett,” Rorke mused as he dropped the hood in place once more. “But I fear it will avail you nothing. Think of her in my chambers while you await the waters of the pool. Perhaps I shall let you see her one last time.” Rorke shrugged. “Perhaps not. Rest well, my Lord.”

  Knowing it was useless, Jarrett pulled against his bonds. The heavy chains bit deep into the flesh of his wrists and ankles, but his fury was stronger than the pain. He bellowed with rage, his mind filling with images of Leyla struggling in Rorke’s embrace. Rorke! What manner of man was he, to speak so easily of murdering the mother of his children, of murdering his King?

  Fury seared Jarrett’s soul. Rorke wanted Greyebridge. He wanted the throne. He wanted Leyla and, by Hadra, he would have them all and there was nothing Jarrett could do about it.

  A low cry of anguish rose in Jarrett’s throat as he slumped against the cold stone wall, the ache in his heart as black as the darkness that lived within the hood.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  When Leyla woke in the morning, she was surprised to find a maid testing the water in a small bathtub.

  “Milady.” The maid curtsied, then gestured at the clothing she had laid out at the foot of the bed. “Lord Rorke bids you join him at First Meal.”

  It was in Leyla’s mind to refuse. She had no desire to dine with Rorke again, but it occurred to her that, should she annoy Rorke, he might take it out on Jarrett.

  Rising, she bathed quickly, allowing the maid to help her dress in a gown of velvet-soft burgundy. The sleeves were slashed and the underskirt was a froth of silver ruffles.

  Tor and Rorke were waiting for her in the dining hall.

  Both men turned her way when she entered the room. Tor’s expression was grim, Rorke’s smug.

  She sat down where Rorke indicated, her back stiff. There was no conversation at the table this morning. Leyla ate what was placed before her, not tasting anything. She glanced at Tor from time to time, but he refused to meet her probing gaze or to let her probe his thoughts.

  When Leyla finished eating, she pushed her plate aside, folded her hands in her lap and fixed her gaze on Rorke, waiting for him to acknowledge her.

  Rorke let out a heavy sigh of exasperation. Shoving his plate aside, he met Leyla’s stare. “He is fine, for now,” he said, his voice gruff as he answered her unspoken question.

  The look of relief in Leyla’s eyes filled him with unreasoning anger.

  Shoving back his chair, he stood away from the table. “I have business to attend to. I shall expect you both at Last Meal. Make no attempt to leave the castle,” he warned, and without waiting for a reply, he left the hall.

  “Tor, what are we to do?”

  “Leave, of course. We cannot stay here.” The Maje glanced at the doorway. “I will not play Rorke’s games.”

  Leyla leaned across the table. “Does thee have a plan?” she asked hopefully.

  “Not yet.”

  “I want to see Jarrett.”

  “No, it is not possible.”

  “If thee won’t take me, I’ll go alone.”

  “Leyla, it is not wise.”

  She sat back in her chair, her shoulders squared, her chin raised defiantly. “I do not care. I must see him. Thee cannot stop me.”

  “He won’t like it,” Tor warned, and she knew he wasn’t speaking of Rorke.

  “I have to see him. I have to know he’s all right.”

  Tor stared into the distance, his expression blank, as he concentrated on Jarrett. In moments, images formed in his mind.

  Jarrett. Chained to the wall. The black hood over his head. A bloody gash made a path of bright crimson across his chest. His thoughts were filled with darkness and despair. And fear, not for his own well-being, but for Leyla.

  “He is well,” Tor said, his voice empty of emotion. “In a dark room. Alone.”

  “I must go to him.”

  “No.” Tor’s hand closed over her arm. “Thee will do him no kindness. Rorke is sure to find out and it will only anger him the more. We must bide our time.”

  “Tor, I will not leave here without Jarrett.”

  “I thought as much.” He loosened his hold on her arm, letting his fingertips caress the back of her hand, then slide over her wrist. Her skin was smooth and warm. “Promise me thee will not try to see him.”

  “No.”

  “Leyla, should thee displease Rorke, he is sure to lock thee in thy room. We will have no chance to escape if we’re denied the freedom of the castle. Thee must be patient.”

  He was right, of course. “Very well,” she agreed. “I will not try to see him.”

  “Good. I am going outside to have a look around. Go to thy room and rest. We must make Rorke think we have resigned ourselves to our situation.”

  Leyla nodded. Perhaps Tor was right.

  Tor watched her until she was out of sight, then left the keep. There were few people outside save for the King’s men. Most of them were engaged in a game of some kind. The rest stood watch at the various castle gates.

  Tor strolled about the yard, seemingly interested in nothing more than a leisurely walk. As if he had every right to do so, he went to the stable and saddled a horse, then rode out of the castle toward the Pavilion.

  Once out of sight, he urged the horse into a gallop. A short time later, he entered the walled city.

  The Pavilion was a large oval building made of dark stone and wood. Flags fluttered over the outdoor arena adjacent to the Pavilion. No one stopped him as he approached the arena, where several men were showing off their equestrian skills.

  Acting as though he were a regular visitor, Tor entered the gate, then stood at the rail, watching the riders. To a man, they rode as though they had been born on horseback, executing difficult maneuvers with ease. And the horses… Tor had never seen such beautiful animals. They moved with the grace of dancers, their hooves seeming to glide over the soft sand, their necks arched, their manes and tails snapping like banners in the wind.

  No one paid him any attention as he left the arena and walked toward the immense double doors that led to the Pavilion. He paused, his hand on the heavy latch, staring at the life-size figures carved in the wood. He hadn’t had time to examine them closely whe
n he’d come here with Rorke, but now he studied the carvings carefully.

  Two men, naked to the waist and armed with curved swords, were etched in vivid detail. Clearly outlined were the taut muscles, the numerous cuts, the glaring intensity as they focused on each other. It was obvious that this was a representation of how the Games had once been, a fight between two evenly matched warriors, a battle meant to prove a man’s skill and test his courage. But the Games had changed until they had become nothing more than a mockery, no longer Games of Skill but Games of Torture and Butchery.

  With his finger, Tor outlined the muscular arm of the carved figure on the left. He could almost feel the blood that oozed from the gash in the man’s shoulder, smell the dust in the air, hear the cheers of the crowd. In Majeulla, a carving depicting such a barbaric display of swordsmanship would have been an abomination.

  With a shake of his head, he opened one of the doors and stepped inside.

  Crossing the main floor, he made his way to the narrow iron steps that led to the dungeons, nodding affably at a Giant he passed on the way down. They were peculiar creatures, near eight feet tall with hunched shoulders and hands that could span a sapling. Their skin was dark, their eyes yellow beneath shaggy black brows.

  Tor expected at any moment to have his presence challenged, but there were few people about. No one questioned his right to be there, and he decided it was because of his attire. He no longer wore the soft flowing robes of the Majeullian people, but the tight-fitting, somber-hued clothing of the Fen. Obviously, they had mistaken him for one of Rorke’s cronies.

  At the top of the last stairway, he took a torch from one of the wall sconces. As had happened before, a torrent of sensations flooded his mind as he reached the last level— the smell of blood and sweat and fear, pitiful cries for help that never came, bitter feelings of despair and anguish, the harsh crack of the lash. And over all, pain, waves and waves of pain. Men had died here. Hundreds and hundreds of men.

  But now only one remained.

  He paused when he reached a narrow wooden door located at the far end of the cellblock.

  He looked up and down the corridor, then, taking a deep breath, he put his hand on the latch and opened the door.