She was well aware of Prince Sekhem’s hatred and his desire to see her head removed from her body. Her only choice was to go with the warrior but she wasn’t so sure that would be an easy feat to accomplish.
“Go get my godsdamned clothes and we will quit this evil place. We must be at the border ere the last brick is mortared into place else we’ll not be able to cross over,” he said. “I have no desire to live my life, such as it is now, here.”
Neith lifted her chin. “I still want you. I have claimed you and a portion of me is inside you. I have made you a whole man and I want the whole man!”
For the first time, she saw him smile.
“Well, bitch, you can have me. In a fashion, at least.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to,” he replied, easily blocking her probe.
* * * * *
Jameela shielded her eyes from the bright sunlight. The workers around her were toiling tirelessly, spades to earth and block upon block. Behind her, the artisans were melting bars of silver and as the top layer of wall was mortared in place, rushed to pour a thick stream upon the stone.
“This has depleted much of our treasury,” Lord Qasim grumbled. With each spreading of the silver, he winced as though it were being splashed on his flesh.
“Which is worth more, Qasim? Silver bars stacked in the treasury or my brother’s life?” the Grand Master inquired.
Sitting in his rolling chair, sheltered beneath an awning held by four stalwart slaves, Hagan Kiel was sipping a glass of lemon water with one hand while he patted the head of his favorite greyhound with the other.
Lord Qasim sighed deeply. “You know I hold Lord Dagan’s life almost as priceless as I hold yours, Your Grace, but…” He shook his head and looked down at the ground.
“They are only half a mile from us,” Jameela said, drawing the men’s attention.
“They?” Qasim questioned.
Jameela’s mouth tightened. “Aye. He has that woman with him.”
It was the Grand Master’s turn to wince. “The Ordonese warrioress you told me about?”
“The one and the same,” Jameela declared, her eyes narrowed.
“Why would he bring one of those demons with him?” Qasim asked.
Jameela “listened” but the answer was not forthcoming. She stamped her foot and cursed. “She’d best keep her hands to herself, Dagan Kiel!” she shouted.
Qasim and the Grand Master looked at one another.
“Be careful what you say, wench!” the Grand Master hissed, looking behind him.
Several members of the Tribunal were scattered about. They did not deign to lift a hand to help dig the canal nor lay a block in place or even plant a bulb of garlic but rather watched with an air of boredom and disdain.
“As though the Master’s Lady-wife has reason to worry about any woman laying hands to Lord Dagan,” one Tribunalist was heard to joke.
The Grand Master turned and glared at the offending Tribunalist whose sheepish look and red-stained cheeks caused those around him to keep other comments to themselves.
“Did she… Was he…” Qasim swallowed hard, his mouth twisted as though something vile lurked in his throat.
“She made him into one like herself,” Jameela answered the Minister of Justice’s concern. “But he says I am not to worry. He is coming back a better man than when he left.”
“You really can read his thoughts, wench?” the Grand Master questioned.
Jameela nodded. “Some of them but he hides others. There is a secret he does not want to share with me or you.”
Hagan Kiel threw his shoulders back. “By the Prophet he’d better think twice about hiding anything from me,” he snapped in his most authoritative voice. “There is a special dungeon cell with his name on it!”
Casting her husband a wounded look, Jameela felt the tears gathering. “Aye,” she said softly, “that there is, Your Grace, and one to which he has never…” She stopped, cocking her head to one side, frowning, and then she opened her eyes wide.
“What?” the Grand Master demanded.
“He knows about the cell because he put that notion in my mind,” she answered. “He says not even he knew why until now but that it will be needed every…” She seemed to be listening intently.
“Every?” her husband echoed.
“Three months,” she continued. “As he understands it.”
Then her lips pursed and her gaze grew stormy.
“And?” the Grand Master prodded.
“She will need a cell of her own,” Jameela snapped, turning away. “Aye, well, she godsdamned will have a cell of her own, as far from his as can be found!”
“For when they turn into raging beasts with bloodlust wild in their eyes,” Qasim said with a shudder.
“Riders!” called out a sentry from the break in the inside wall of the dry canal.
The workers stopped their labors and looked toward the area where the sentry was pointing. All along the wall for as far as the eye could see, men, women and children were ranged with picks and hoes and shovels in hand. Unseen at the farthest reaches of the dry hole dug five feet deep in the Ahkharuan soil, engineers stood at the floodgates, ready to lift the heavy wood and metal barriers so sea water could fill the canal.
“How many riders?” Qasim yelled.
“Two in the lead but a troop of fifty or so in close pursuit!” came the answer.
Jameela turned to a brace of archers who stood paused beside a flaming caldron. “Now!” she shouted.
The archers took up their bows and dipped their flannel-wrapped arrow points soaked in creosote into the caldron. A burst of flame flared and the arrows were loosed, one to the east and one to the west. Their arrows would alert other archers stationed along the walls to send their own signals toward the opposite ends of the canal where the engineers stood ready to loose the running waters.
Jameela bit her lip as she hurried toward the women and small children who were planting the last of the garlic bulbs on the Ordonese side of the border. “Hurry,” she said.
The last few bulbs covered, the women and children of Sahar Colony scrambled over the three-foot wide makeshift bridge that linked the two countries. Where the wood lay upon the ground, no garlic had been planted on either side of the border and would not be until Dagan was safely across. Their counterparts stood with their plantings in hand on the Ahkharuan side and had to move out the way so the others could pass.
“As soon as he is across, stand in the opening,” Jameela instructed the four women and two children. “Do not be concerned. The Ordonese will not run you down with the garlic in your hands.”
Hagan Kiel ordered Manu to push him closer to the openings in the double wall. The space was wide enough for the horses to jump across in single file. He looked to the left then the right and saw the dirt in the canal darkening. “The waters are coming,” he said then strained to find his brother speeding toward them.
Thundering hooves echoed across the barren land that separated Ordon and Akhkharu. As the beasts crested the hill, everyone could see Lord Dagan in the lead, riding bent low over his mount’s head, cutting the wind resistance as the black stallion raced toward the double walls. Another horse was speeding a neck behind Dagan’s.
“Hurry, Dagan,” Jameela whispered and was rewarded with a mental touch against her cheek.
Dagan used his reins to spur the big stallion faster. He could sense Neith close behind him but gave scant thought to the woman. His heart was thundering in his chest and with a vision that had improved one thousand per cent, he could see Jameela as clearly as though she stood right in front of him.
“Move Hagan out of the way,” he sent to his lady.
Jameela flinched. “Your Grace! You are in his path. Move back!”
Manu jerked on the handles of the rolling chair and quickly dragged his master out of harm’s way. Even as he did, the big brute of a stallion came flying over the makeshift bridge, i
ts hooves not even touching the wood.
Dagan glanced down at the water flowing quickly toward the center of the wooden planks from East and West. A part of him issued a silent command for Neith to hurry while another part of him hoped the warrioress would be caught on the other side, trapped there. Had she not been in possession of the Book, he would have ordered Jameela to tell her people to bar the woman’s path.
“You had better not!” a violent push against his mind warned and Dagan grinned.
Jameela’s eyes grew wide as the black stallion bore down on her. She gasped even as her lover’s arm swooped down for her and dragged her to the back of the beast. She threw her arms around Dagan’s waist and pressed her cheek to his back, the stallion never breaking its thunderous stride.
The waters were converging as Neith cleared the wooden planks. She felt a vast sickness reach up to grip her and had to fight the instinct to pitch herself off her mount and stay clear of the running waters.
Hagan looked behind him and saw his twin racing back toward Sahar Colony. He heard Lord Qasim giving orders to the women to finishing planting the garlic.
“Quickly, now!” Qasim shouted, keeping his eyes on the advancing troop galloping toward the barrier.
The women planted the last of the garlic on the Ordonese side then ran over the planks as the masons scurried over to lay the last blocks in place and a metal smith stood ready to pour a stream of silver atop.
Dagan paused at the top of a rise and dragged on his mount’s reins, turning the beast so he and Jameela could see what was happening. The metal smith was the last over the bridge—barely clearing it before the plank was drawn back, the swirling waters beneath it lapping greedily at the banks.
“I pray the blocks will hold,” Jameela said.
“They will,” Dagan assured her. He smiled as he watched women and children stooping down to plant garlic on the Akhkharulian side of the border.
Neith sawed on the reins, her stallion coming to a skidding stop beside Dagan’s. She swept her eyes contemptuously over Jameela then turned her attention to the man she considered her mate. “Sekhem is cursing a blue streak, Beloved,” she said.
Dagan glanced at her then away. He was watching the Ordonese troops ranging well out of the way of the garlic-studded barrier. Prince Sekhem’s fist was raised in the air, his shouts as clear as a bell to Dagan’s enhanced hearing.
“One more word,” Dagan said softly, his words aimed at Sekhem, “and there will be no help for you from my people. Turn around and go back to Gaoth and I will see your needs are met.”
“You will rue the day you defied me, Dagan Kiel!” the Ordonese prince snarled.
“Such is life,” Dagan responded.
“You had better hope the garlic thrives and the wall stands,” Neith warned. “Else Sekhem will be here in a thrice to take your head.”
Jameela tightened her hold around Dagan’s waist and was relieved when he covered her hands with one of his. He gave her hand a tight squeeze then gave Neith a stern look.
“Go back to where my people are and ask for the Grand Master,” he commanded her.
Neith lifted her chin. “I will not! Where you go, I go!”
“I think not,” Dagan said firmly. “Go, else I will have my people come after you.”
Narrowing her eyes, Neith clenched her teeth as she spoke. “Do you forget I have the Book?”
“Go find the Grand Master,” Dagan repeated. “You’ll know why when you meet him.” Without giving the woman another second of his time, Dagan turned the horse toward the far hills and dug his knees into the stallion.
Neith was furious as the Akhkharulian warrior galloped away, the insipid woman draped around him like a thorny vine. For a moment, she had it in her mind to follow them but the womanly part of her—curious to know what Dagan meant—turned her toward the crowd gathered at the border. As she urged her mount forward, she could see Sekhem’s troop already riding hell bent for leather away from the stone barrier and back toward Gaoth keep.
“Your Grace,” Manu said, nudging his chin toward the advancing rider.
Hagan frowned for he could see it was the Ordonese woman. His hands clenched on the arms of the rolling chair and it was on the tip of his tongue to tell Manu to get him the hell out of there lest the bitch make demands upon him. But as she drew nearer and he could see the blazing beauty of her pale face, he surprised himself by bidding his manservant to wait.
The closer she came to the crowd, the more uneasy Neith felt, but there was a pulling she did not understand though she did not understand what it could be. The pulling seemed to be coming from the heart of the mob. When a tall woman and her brats moved out of the way, Neith sucked in a breath for she could make out clearly the man at the center of the rabble and she felt her heartbeat quicken.
Hagan found himself staring at the beauty whose horse trotted toward him. There was nothing about her that did not please him. Had he been able to stand, he would have risen and given a stately bow so taken with her appearance was he.
He is lame, Neith thought as she took in the rolling chair. Never mind, an additional thought flitted through her mind, that he was a carbon copy of Lord Dagan.
Manu stepped in front of his master as the Ordonese warrioress drew nigh. He put a hand to the sword at his side.
“Tell your man to step aside, Your Grace,” Neith said in an authoritative voice. She stopped her mount five feet away and bowed her head in greeting. “I am no menace to you.”
“Every Ordonese taller than a grasshopper is a menace,” Hagan quipped.
“Only to our enemies,” Neith responded and vaulted expertly from the saddle. She tossed her reins toward a man she reasoned to be a servant and strode forward, drawing off her black leather riding gloves as she walked.
“Am I not your enemy?” the Grand Master inquired, looking up at the gorgeous woman.
“Perhaps,” Neith replied. “And perhaps not.” She pulled aside the long leather duster she wore and drew out the Book. “This will let me know.”
Glancing at the aged leather, Hagan felt nauseous for he suspected what bound the tome. “What is that?” he asked.
Neith squatted down in front of him. “Your salvation, Beloved,” she said, putting out a hand.
Hagan took the woman’s hand and felt a tremor of sexual excitement rippled through him. Even though Jameela was an expert at the craft Dagan had taught her, her touch did not do to Hagan what this woman’s did.
“I don’t understand,” the Grand Master said, bringing Neith’s hand to his lips.
Neith smiled for her body was trembling at this man’s touch. Lord Dagan—as handsome a man as she had ever seen—could not hold a candle to the warrior who held her hand. His fingers burned her flesh with a delightful fire that set her loins ablaze. The Book clutched in her free hand undulated much as her womb had quickened at the Grand Master’s touch. She knew this man was the one intended for her.
“The woman with whom Lord Dagan rode away,” Neith said. “She is your Lady-wife?”
Hagan nodded, wincing at the thought. The woman who squatted before him would make a much better helpmate than Jameela.
“And he cares for her?”
“Dagan?” the Grand Master inquired. “Aye, he loves her deeply.”
Neith’s pride prickled her but she shrugged away the annoyance. “And she him?”
“With all her heart,” Dagan’s twin acknowledged. “She is ready to share a cell with him.”
Rolling her eyes, Neith got to her feet. “She has yet to see him Transition,” she snorted.
Hagan didn’t like the sound of that, but so lovely was the woman staring down at him he pushed the unease aside. “You will also need a cell, milady?”
“Aye, but not for another fortnight,” Neith responded. She cocked a brow. “That will give us plenty of time to…” Her red lips stretched into a taunting smile. “Get to know one another,” she finished.
A prickling shudder traveled thro
ugh the Grand Master’s body and his staff stiffened. Quickly covering that offending member, he looked up at the woman and shrugged. “He has a mind of his own, I fear.”
Neith threw her head back and laughed then shouldered Manu out of the way. She gripped the handles of the rolling chair and began pushing it toward the coach that waited nearby.
“It took all Manu’s strength to get me over here,” Hagan said, looking behind him.
“Well, my strength is that of ten of your warriors,” Neith said. She stopped pushing the chair and bent down so her lips were against the Grand Master’s ear. “Especially in bed,” she whispered for him alone.
* * * * *
Dagan maneuvered his mount into the thickest portion of the forest beyond Lalssu Keep. He had to push away a few low-hanging bushes to protect he and his lady but the view that greeted them was worth every minor scrap of branch.
“By the Prophet!” Jameela gasped as he halted the horse, swung a long leg over the mount’s head and slid to the ground. She barely noticed her lover holding his arms out to her.
The forest had ended in a line of windswept pines, gnarled and twisted from the sea gusts that had pressed against them for centuries. Framing a spectacular view of the ocean, the pines gave off a pleasing scent and their warped branches rubbed together in a soothing sound.
“I come here a lot,” Dagan said as Jameela put her hands on his shoulders and he swung her down from the stallion’s back.
“I can see why,” she whispered.
“I was afraid Hagan would not allow you to leave the keep,” he said, crooking his index finger under her chin to lift her face. “It took all my persuasion to make him listen to you.”
Surprise elevating her brows, Jameela asked if he could commune with his twin as he communed with her. “If you can, he did not tell me.”
“I have always been able to influence him when it mattered,” Dagan replied. “Sometimes, my anger gets the better of me and the persuasion doesn’t work.” He shrugged. “Most times, he listens though he is unaware that he does.”
She put a hand up to his face and pushed a strand of dark hair out of his eyes. “I was so worried about you.”
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