by DL O'Neal
One hour bled into another. Her world narrowed to the swaying jar of her taiger's gait and to the unrelenting pressure of the storm that made it impossible to gain a full breath.
Drakthe's voice croaked in her ear, startling her from a numbing stupor. "Cheyna? You're going to have to help me." He shook her. "Cheyna?"
Only then did she realize they'd stopped. Cheyna licked her lips and tasted blood. "Let me remove the blindfold," she said, fresh cracks forming with each word. She unwound the cloth, sending a shower of sand down her back. Cheyna brushed at the sand on her lashes and blinked to clear her vision.
They were in a cave. Wind howled and snarled in the opening, searching for its escaped prey. Drakthe leaned against the side of her taiger, trapping her leg. The heavy warmth of his body scorched her thigh. When she rested her hand on his shoulder, she was shocked to feel a tremor run beneath her palm.
"Drakthe?"
He raised his head. Cheyna stifled a gasp. Blood and sand crusted his face. His eyes, usually so full of magnificent gold fire, stared back blindly.
Cheyna scrambled down out of the saddle, reaching for Drakthe even as his knees buckled. She slipped her shoulder under his arm and, half supporting him, led him over to one wall. He fell rather than sat down.
She knelt, touching his battered face with gentle fingertips. Not looking away, she searched the special lining that carried her medicines with her other hand. Her hand shook, jostling the jars. Drakthe's head turned toward her at the small clinking sound.
"No."
"You are hurt."
"Later," he rasped. "Get...tarp...saddlebags...opening... storm." He made a move to get up.
"Shh, my lord. Rest quietly. I will take care of the matter." She hadn't gone more than a few feet, when Drakthe's raw whisper came to her.
"Don't look...storm. Mad." His head slumped sideways, his breathing harsh and irregular.
Torn between carrying out his orders and returning to Drakthe, she hesitated. A gust of wind slammed into the cave, whipping up small whirlwinds. Her decision made, she sped toward the opening, anxious to block out the storm so she could tend to Drakthe.
Despite his warning not to look at the storm, Cheyna found her gaze drawn to the raging tempest outside. A potent wave of nausea washed over her. Tarp half-raised to drape across the opening, she froze.
It was as if a careless hand had poured the spectrum. Color swirled and rebounded in the intense whiteness of the storm. Forms took shape and dissipated in the blink of an eye. Gaze locked on the seething mass, she took one step forward.
A harsh, racking cough echoed down the short corridor.
She blinked. Saints, had she really been going to go outside? Drakthe's warning resounded in her mind. Don't look. Resolutely, she turned her attention back to tacking the tarp across the entrance. She lingered just long enough to be sure it would hold.
Dropping to her knees, she placed her palm on his forehead. "My lord? Drakthe? Can you hear me?" His skin was hot and dry to the touch. She brushed at the stubborn grains of sand. Removing the water flask from her belt, she supported the strong column of his neck with one hand and tilted the flask. He swallowed greedily as the warm, flat water dribbled into his mouth. Afraid he was going to make himself sick, she pulled the flask away.
"The taigers--"
"Do not worry, my lord. I will see to the animals after I have tended to you," she soothed, allowing him another swallow of water before laying the flask aside. Sand and blood mixed, and ran down the side of his face. She dabbed at it with the cuff of her burnuese.
He moved his head away from her touch. "See to them...first. Might bolt. Pool in back...cave."
Rather than argue, she slipped out of the cape. Crumpling it into a ball, she eased Drakthe's head down on the makeshift pillow. "I will see to them if you promise to sleep." She smoothed matted hair from his face as his eyes closed.
The taigers were eager to follow her once they smelled water. She eased the saddles and packs off the weary beasts. Sweat mingled with blood on the rag she used to give them a perfunctory wipe. A mass of tiny cuts marred their sleek hides, but none seemed deep enough to cause serious problems. She made a mental note to check them again, later. Satisfied that the animals would stay near the pool, she hurried back to Drakthe.
She spread out the tleera sleeprug. After a short struggle she managed to get him on it. With brisk efficiency, she stripped his shirt off and surveyed the damage inflicted by the storm. Most seemed confined to his face and neck.
Using water from the flask, she bathed his face. Once the crusted blood and sand were removed, red, raw patches marked his cheeks and forehead. Her touch featherlight, she rubbed dark yellow salve over the lacerations.
Drakthe's eyes worried her the most. Despite the protection he'd insisted she wear, her own eyes were irritated. What must his be like? Worried by what she might find, she pulled back his lids and studied them. Bloodshot and painfully dry, tiny crystals glinted in the corners. Carefully, she flushed the sharp-edged sand from his eyes with water.
Frustration built as she put drops of camole tea in his eyes. Her ignorance of the perils of Scimtar, and the Plains of Skaen in particular, might cost Drakthe his sight. As a NaturPath, she should have taken care to learn them.
Lips compressed, she soaked cloth pads with more of the mild antibiotic and pressed them over his eyes. Using strips of bandage, Cheyna secured them in place. She drew a sleeprug over him and tucked it under his chin. She had done what she could, the rest was up to nature and to Drakthe's own healing ability.
Cheyna smoothed a lock of hair off his brow, the inky darkness in striking contrast to the white strip. Her hand lingered, checking the comforting beat of his heart, the steady pulse in his throat.
What would she do if Drakthe's loss of sight was permanent? How could she tell him? How could she explain that she, a noted NaturPath on Rpiere, had failed to save her own bondmate's sight? Then there were other, practical, considerations. If Drakthe did lose his sight, how would they traverse the Plains to get help? It had taken all her bondhusband's skills to get them this far. If she tried to guide them, she'd get them hopelessly lost.
Saints, she hated feeling so helpless.
Cheyna sprang to her feet. Exhausted as she was, she could not just sit and wait for Drakthe to wake. She needed to be busy or worry would drive her crazy. After checking on the taigers, she eyed the large cavern with desperate interest. Careful not to move too far away in case Drakthe called out, she began exploring.
Eons ago, water had carved the series of caverns from the mountain. Embedded in the black rock were tiny fossils. Cheyna moved closer and studied them. Fantastically shaped creatures swam, frozen in time, across the face of the wall. Water would have covered Scimtar back then, with only pockets of dry land to support emerging air-breathing life. What cataclysmic event had changed this area into a desert? Tectonic plates shifting? A meteor? Raipierian scientists speculated that Rpiere had once been much like Scimtar until a meteor strike had blown most of its water into space. Theories abounded, but no one had the definitive answer. They probably never would.
Strolling the perimeter of the cavern, her gaze glued to the unfamiliar fossils, she stumbled. Glancing down, she froze at the sight of the skull grinning back. Ribs, skulls, and leg bones lay scattered about on the floor, as if thrown there by uncaring hands. Backing, she accidently kicked the gruesome discovery.
Spine bones, whitened with age, rattled hollowly as they skittered away from her feet. One hand went over her thundering heart. Animal bones, she told herself, shuddering. They were just the bones of long-dead animals. But she refused to look too close, just in case.
All desire for further exploration evaporated.
A fine shivering started down deep inside. Funny, she hadn't noticed the cold before. It was almost as if the crystal storm was sucking all warmth from the day. Collecting tangi wood, she started a fire to take the chill off the room.
With a fire c
rackling and popping cheerfully and the fragrance of yupon tea filling the chamber, she finally managed to settle in one spot. Drakthe had yet to stir. His stillness was beginning to worry her. He had not moved at all since she drew the second sleeprug over him. Surely he should be waking by now?
Cheyna finished the last of her tea and crept over to sit next to him. She put out a hand and tentatively touched his forehead, relieved to find he was cool to the touch. Without stopping to consider his reaction if he learned what she was doing, she opened her mind to his.
Pain and weariness washed over her, but no more than one would expect after such an ordeal. Reassured, she slipped under the covers and rested her head on his chest, letting the steady beat of his heart lull her to sleep. Hours later, guttural moans roused her. Drakthe jerked upright, dislodging her from his chest.
"Jkael! My eyes! I can't see!" His hands clawed at his face.
"Drakthe! Do not!" Cheyna caught his hands before they touched the bandages, holding them with a fierce strength against her breasts. "It is all right, my lord."
"I can't see, Cheyna. Jkael! The storm blindness should have worn off by now." Panic caused his breath to come in short, harsh pants.
"No, my lord. I bandaged your eyes."
A sharp shudder ran through the massive body. "Bandaged?"
"Yes, my lord. To help them heal."
He slipped one hand free and explored his eyes with shaking fingers.
"Jkael," he breathed. "I thought--"
"Would you like something to drink? It would not take long for tea."
He inhaled deeply before nodding. He ran his tongue over his lips. "How long have I been out?" He winced as he shifted position.
She answered as she poured water into the kettle. "Dayspring is not far off."
His head turned sharply in her direction. "We found the cave not long after mid-solstice. Are you telling me I slept for nearly fourteen hours?"
"You were very tired." Her stomach quivered. Drakthe had risked his life in his determination to get her to safety. In return, she could not even assure him he would have his sight.
"I've been tired before. Jkael, bondwife, why didn't you wake me before now?"
She set the tin of yupon tea down with a sharp movement. "Because, my lord, you could have died in the storm. As it is, you could lose your si--" Too late, she bit her lip on the unwise observation.
"What? My sight? We can discover that quickly enough." He began unwinding the bandage.
"No, my lord. Do not!" She flew across the space separating them, but the cloth tumbled into his lap. Cheyna sank onto her heels and stared at Drakthe in dismay. "This is not a good idea, my lord."
He pinched forefinger and thumb together over the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes tightly shut before opening them. "Well, that answered that question." He glanced at her as she hovered over him, his eyes squinted against the brightness of the fire. "I can see fine."
"Hardheaded Merchant Master," Cheyna declared, the vexation in her voice not quite managing to hide the distress she was feeling. "You could have jeopardized your vision, my lord." Scooting closer, she reached for the discarded bandages, intent on replacing them.
"Leave them off, House-daughter," he gritted, putting a large hand to his head. Pain tightened his lips and carved deep lines in his forehead.
She nudged his hand away and began massaging his temples.
"Ah, House-daughter. Great Lords would kill for such a touch." His eyes drifted shut.
"Do not think a few soft words will make me forget your reckless behavior, my lord," she rebuked him. Irritating man. "I am not so easily bought."
"No, you require half a man's profit."
Cheyna dropped her hands as if burnt.
Drakthe's hand shot out and gripped her wrist before she could gain her feet. Cheyna knelt there, unresisting. Inside was a burning pain like none she'd ever experienced before, but she refused to let him see how effortlessly he could wound her. She schooled her expression.
"I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."
"Do not apologize. It is what you believe." She looked down at the hand dwarfing her wrist. Bloody traces of the storm marked its strength. Cheyna's stomach twisted.
Was it true? Had he bought her?
"No."
Her gaze flew up to his, an unspoken question in her eyes.
"Because I hurt and needed someone to lash out at." He shrugged. "Because I'm a bastard."
She searched his face. Blood crusted the corners of his eyes. Bruises darkened the flesh beneath his eyes and fine cuts marred the deep bronze of his skin. He didn't look away from her stare. His thumb began stroking the skin of her inner wrist.
"Your eyes need to be flushed again to minimize the chance of permanent damage." The rhythmic caress stopped, then started again. His touch didn't bother her in the slightest, she told herself firmly, still smarting.
"Lie down, my lord, while I heat the tea." He obligingly settled back against the tleera fur. Cheyna eyed him, suspicious of his easy compliance. Drakthe stared back blandly.
Ill-at-ease, she set about preparing a meal. They should have eaten hours ago, she realized with a sense of shock. Waiting for the prepackaged food to heat, she happened to glance in Drakthe's direction and found his steady gaze resting upon her. He didn't say anything, but made no secret of the fact he was watching her every move.
What was he thinking? She wanted to ask, but hesitated. His comment earlier about buying her, hurt. Even now, he had absolutely no understanding of her. She stirred the simple fair of rice and vegetables with unwarranted attention.
Perhaps that touch on the Plains had served a purpose. It had given her incontrovertible proof that their union was not destined to survive. No longer was her inner sanctuary, the place that provided balance, Rpiere, but Scimtar. A clear sign she had to leave the past behind and get on with building a new life here, on her birth world.
A past that now included Drakthe.
Ignoring the ache in her chest that the discovery cause, Cheyna resolved to tuck her half-formed longings away and concentrate on her mission, as she should have done from the start.
Mealtime was a subdued affair, the bluster of the still raging crystal storm and the hushed rumbles of the taigers the only sounds to break the silence. She cleaned up when they were finished, each movement almost too much an effort to make. Despite having slept, she was tired to the bone. And that raised a point she had carefully avoided. Where was she supposed to sleep?
Cheyna hovered next to the fire, debating what she should do. She held her breath as Drakthe stretched out, only to release it in a rush when he lifted one corner of the sleeprug in mute invitation. She didn't hesitate. She hurried across the icy stone floor and crawled under the covers. Curled next to his warmth, she broke the quiet at last.
"My lord?" She stared into the embers of the fire, her back to him, a careful distance between them. A wisp of smoke curled upward from the dying fire. "In all ways that matter, you are not a bastard."
Drakthe hauled her up against his body.
Cheyna went to sleep, his fingers laced with hers.
* * *
Eyes half closed against the brightness of the sun, Drakthe took great pains to hide the agony that lanced through his skull every time the sun glared off a shard of volcanic glass. It galled him to no end that, because of his stupidity, Cheyna had cared for him like a helpless child. If he hadn't been too distracted to notice the storm before it was on top of them, he could have found shelter long before it struck.
His mouth twisted.
Pride. A commodity he possessed in abundance. If anyone had asked him about pride before today, he would have told them it was a good thing. Pride had allowed him to stare down those that tried to belittle him, allowed him to refuse to believe their disparaging comments were true. But right at this moment he wasn't sure pride was worth the cost. If he possessed less of it his eyes wouldn't hurt. Pride, however, demanded he show no weakness. Not afte
r the way he'd relied on Cheyna yesterday. Beneath lowered lids, he slid a surreptitious glance toward his bondwife.
A half-smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Drakthe got the uncomfortable feeling she knew the quandary he was in and was amused by it.
"Drakthe?" She swayed with her animal's shuffling trot as she reined the mare closer to his taiger. "I would ask an indulgence of you."
"What?" Thoughts of pride were forgotten as he stifled the urge to kiss his bondwife. It was hard. His little House-daughter was all too appealing with her hair a fiery nimbus around her head and her mouth softened in a smile. Maybe one kiss wouldn't hurt. He leaned toward her.
"Would you tell me of the Crystal Krees?"
"Enough! Cheyna, I told you that the Krees is a child's fairietale." He straightened abruptly, his mood broken.
"Please, my lord." She placed her hand on his forearm. Her hand looked ridiculously small and fragile against his bunched muscles. "I know you do not believe. I--I would just like to know."
Drakthe hunched his shoulders, ill-at-ease. "Why the interest?"
She would not hold his gaze. "It is hard to explain."
He expelled a resigned breath. "What you mean is that you believe the legend."
She gave a tiny nod.
Shaking off the discomfort the topic held for him, he began. "Legend speaks of a Crystal Sheathe and Krees. Supposedly, upon the mating of the two the possessor will gain unlimited powers." He snorted derisively. "Like I said, a child's tale. Or a fool's." He canted a glance at Cheyna. His bondwife's eyes were wide with fascination and something else he couldn't quite put a name to. A silent groan rumbled in the back of his throat. He should never have given in to her request. She reminded him of a cub listening with awe to the elders' tales.