“Lord Elgrend?”
Fearfully, I whispered his name. There was no response, but I wasn’t expecting one.
Cool night air raised bumps on the bare skin of my arms and legs, while a cold tendril of fear snaked its way around my heart, squeezing hard. Uneasy, I moved toward the bed, catching sight of a pale hand thrusting its way from the tangle of blankets. Licking my lips nervously, I touched it…and gasped, snatching my fingers away. It was already cold. Stiff.
No, no…
With infinite care, I peeled back the rich coverlet. Bile rose in my throat.
So much blood.
It stained the blankets, the sheets, the floor. Up close, the odor was simply overpowering. My stomach turned, and I felt my face blanch. Fighting to maintain control, I studied the scene.
The body lay face up, eyes wide open and staring vacantly. Both legs dangled from the bed’s edge as if just shifted over to stand. The long slash across the throat, down the chest, and into the stomach had ripped fabric as well as flesh, baring the victim’s insides. The wound was deep, the work of a hungry blade. I stared transfixed at the grizzly sight, my limbs frozen as the corpse’s, my mind equally blank.
Then there was a sound, coming from the door behind me.
I should’ve been afraid, but instinct took over, freeing me from emotions and pain. I whirled to face the intruder. He stood there in the doorway, the glowing moonstone in his hand casting weird, misshapen shadows on the wall and across his face. In the half-light, his eyes gleamed unnaturally bright, and I discerned the outline of a dagger grasped in his other hand, its blade still wet and dark.
“Dilk Wy’ Kraux.” My voice was amazingly calm. “It was you all along: a spy for The Evil, an ally to the Doinum. You saw Elisia return, heard what she told the High Elder. You knew something had to be done.”
A slow, wicked smile transformed the pinched, proud features of his narrow face, but I was unafraid, sensing somehow that my strength was greater than his, even if he was armed with a blade.
“Tell me, Chief Steward,” I said, pressing slowly forward. “How did it feel to murder a respected old man you’ve served for years? Did you enjoy killing someone who’s been nothing but kind to you? Are you that sick?”
“Oh, I am far from sick, my lady, but I took pleasure in it.”
There was no repentance, no sorrow, no remorse. Clearly, he was proud of what he’d done. Realizing this sealed my determination to act before he could unleash his evil on anybody else.
“That’s good, Dilk.” I nodded. I was closer now. “Because it’s the last thing you’re ever going to enjoy. In this life or the next.”
The puzzlement on his face told me I’d managed to throw him off guard, giving me the advantage of surprise. Maybe he thought I’d scream for the guards or wait for the Simathe. At most, he may’ve figured I’d defend myself if he came at me. I didn’t think he expected me to attack. He was wrong. An inhuman snarl escaped, born of virulent fury combined with a primal need for revenge. I rushed him.
Passion and Fear
Desperate to find his lady, the Simathe High-Chief sped recklessly down the too-long corridors. Even though the necessity of hearing the Spinner’s hasty explanation had given her a head start, the bond between them guided him toward her through the silent palace as surely as magnets attract one another. Taking stock of his surroundings, he found himself nearing the chambers of Lord Elgrend, the High Elder. Lady Elisia had relayed to him how she’d first told the High Elder her tale, but why had Hannah felt a compulsion to come here in such haste rather than go to Lord Garett or someone else ready to give aid?
Himself, he had paused only long enough to slip on his boots and tie back his hair before going after her. What the young Artan might be walking into, he did not know, and he wasn’t prepared to have her go it alone. He knew he’d been right in this decision when, suddenly, he felt the shock of raw energy that he always did when she Commanded or Became. He next felt a jolt of surprise, then of revulsion tinged with fear, which was followed by a steady, growing resolve. A resolve he was initially uncertain how to interpret. Only when, a trice afterward, came the realization that she was in danger did he recognize the resolve for what it was: the will to fight.
But with the knowledge of her in danger came a forgetfulness of her as the Artan, and he remembered her only as the woman he was sworn to protect, had Joined with for that purpose. Pace quickening, he rounded a marble pillar, running at top speed toward the High Elder’s chambers. The unfamiliar taste of fear filled his mouth, and he flew toward the place where, even now, she was preparing to fight.
Almost there.
Down the hallway, he glimpsed first the formal robes of the palace’s Chief Steward then saw the man’s body flail as if struck by a heavy blow. He caught the glint of moonlight on a flashing blade…the man was armed with a viscous, bloodstained dagger. Her blood? Unnatural fear seized him at the thought. The warrior’s long strides ate up the ground, but he could not get there fast enough.
Finally, as he was almost upon them, the warrior heard a loud cry from his charge. Again the Chief Steward’s body jerked violently, the blow sending him reeling backward into the hall. The man was given no time to recover or respond before his opponent shot from the doorway, aiming a fist and then a kick at the man’s head. Both blows landed, throwing him back against the wall. The Simathe, watching, had no time to react himself before she was there again, her foot connecting with the Steward’s stomach. Dilk crumpled but did not fall.
Raising a face twisted in anger and smeared with blood from a cut on his lip, he snarled, “For that I will kill you, Lady.”
She edged away, balancing lightly on the balls of her feet. “Think so? C’mon then, Chief Steward. Try it! Try to kill me.”
Now was his chance. Ilgard moved to intervene.
“Stay back!” She thrust out a hand but did not look at him, never taking her gaze from the man slumped against the wall. “This is my fight.”
“Aye,” the other agreed, “and it ends now.”
Raising his weapon, Dilk charged. She dodged, leaping aside, and in the same motion hooked her foot around his, jerking hard. The Chief Steward went down but twisted violently as he fell, lashing out with the blade in his hand. Ilgard heard her scream as the weapon sliced the bare skin of her upper arm, but she refused to retreat or back down.
At the precise instant the Chief Steward hit the ground, she was there. Throwing herself on top of his body, straddling it, she grasped his knife hand by the wrist, turning the blade against its bearer. Then, with his fingers still clutching the hilt, she slashed Dilk’s throat with his own weapon. Blood spurted, a crimson fountain, but she never flinched. Her eyes locked with those of the dying man, she hissed, “See the result of choosing to walk with The Evil. Now, walk in it forever!” Plucking his knife away, she drove it once, hard, into his heart.
It was only afterward, in the oddly peaceful aftermath, that Ilgard finally approached. Crouching next to her, he laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“My lady?”
No response. She was breathing hard, unable to tear either hands or eyes from the knife hilt protruding from the former Chief Steward of Laytrii’s breast. Concerned, he tried again, digging his fingers forcefully into her shoulder.
“My lady!”
At last she turned, lifting her face to his. Her eyes were haunted as she whispered softly, “I—I killed him, Ilgard. He murdered the High Elder, and I think I would’ve been next, but…I just killed a man.”
As soon as the battle ended, she’d released the power she held. Now the reality of what she’d done was dawning upon her. The warrior-lord knew there was no time for the remorse and even revulsion most felt over taking a life for the first time. Gripping her wrists, he pulled her to her feet, steering her a few paces from the corpse. Stooping, he ripped a strip of fabric from the hem of her nightshift then rose to bind it tightly around her arm, pleased to see the wound was superficial.
A surprising calmness crept across her face, erasing the former remorse.
“No. I’ll fight too.”
She saw him about to protest and swiftly laid a hand to his chest, saying, “You can’t coddle me forever, Ilgard. I’m the Artan. This is my destiny, isn’t it? To fight? If not, why am I here?”
The logic of her words hit him like a blow. Though inwardly he cursed, the Simathe knew there could be no arguing against her. All the training with himself and his men, all the training with the fairy and the Moonkind, what were they for if not for now, this very moment?
He had protected her for so long it had become second nature. Stepping back and admitting she was ready to place herself in harm’s way in defense of his homeland—now, that was a difficult thing to do. Part of him wanted nothing more than to hurry her off to a place of safety, a place where nothing ever could or ever would threaten her again. It was the curse of the Joining, a bond created for the sole purpose of protection. Now, however, he’d witnessed her work. Did she even require his protection?
He curled his fingers around those on his chest, melding his gaze with hers, admiring fiercely the person she had become. Hardship had molded and trials had strengthened her. By overcoming them all, she now stood ready to meet her destiny. Knowing what he had to do, the Simathe made himself let go of her. She was ready; he must be too.
Freeing her hand, he stepped back. “As you wish, my lady.”
She half-smiled at his acquiescence. “I can’t believe you’re agreeing to this.” Then the warrior mask slipped, allowing him a glimpse of the frightened girl beneath. It was she who whispered, “You’ll stay with me, won’t you? Right by me? Through whatever happens?”
His blood surged, the timid, trembling question tearing painfully at something inside. Not stopping to think, he grasped her chin in his hand.
“Aye, lass,” he promised, voice earnest, low. “Though the Dark One himself appear, I will fight with”—for, he amended in his thoughts—“you, through whatever this night may bring.”
Her eyes probed his as she accepted that promise. “I know you will,” she murmured simply.
With that, the girl was gone, the woman assuming her place. Time was running out, and they had to go. Whatever else occurred this night, he knew that she would never be the same. Likewise, the Simathe lord doubted he would, either. Perhaps that knowledge played into what followed.
Whatever it was, the light from Dilk’s lost moonstone glinting in her mismatched eyes and frosting her hair, or maybe the passion of the moment; whoever it was, Ilgard or his lady; whoever they were—a Simathe and the Artan, he would never know. But the next second, the fingers on her chin had relaxed their hold. His hand cupped her cheek briefly before slipping down, his fingertips tracing a path over the hinge of her jaw, the back of her neck. His arm crept across her shoulder blades, drawing her body against his.
She did not resist, and it was too late to stop now…
Hesitating, he watched her long, curved lashes float closed in anticipation before finally lowering his head and letting his mouth meet hers. Shocked by what he discovered, he found himself pulled under a current too strong to withstand. It was the perfect culmination of all the desire, the appeal, the confusion, the charm, the frustration, the joy, the magic that ever he’d found in her.
It was a kiss—an actual kiss, and nothing at all like their first. It was a sharing, not a taking, and he knew that for certain when her hands slid leisurely up his bare arms, traveling slowly over his shoulders. Cupping his neck between her palms, she pressed nearer and rose on tiptoes the better to reach him. He responded instinctively, deepening the kiss and pulling her as close as he dared. She was so small, yet she fit his arms so well…
He was lost in the magic they wove, so much so that it took three attempts by his Chief Captain of reaching out to him, mentally warning him of imminent danger, before Ilgard heard. He acceded reluctantly, letting her go and reporting the news to his lady.
She simply nodded. “We’ve got to go, then.”
“Aye.” Pulling himself together, only then did he notice. “My lady, you are unarmed.”
“Give me a minute,” she said and stepped free of his arm, closing her eyes. Concentrating. Once more the Simathe experienced that flash of raw energy in its purest form, and then in her hands materialized an exquisite sword of glistering steel. Its blade glimmered in the shadowy light as she arced it through the air in quick, circular motions, getting a feel for its heft and balance.
“This will do,” she said. “Let’s go.”
Light, but she was uncommonly beautiful, standing there in her torn, blood-stained nightdress, her hair falling wildly about her bare shoulders. He’d had many visions of the coming Artan through the long years, but never one like this. Nor could any of his speculations possibly hope to compete with reality.
That is enough.
Shoving such unfamiliar foolishness roughly away, the warrior-lord stooped, seizing the hilt of the knife protruding from the dead man’s chest. With a single firm tug, he extracted it, wiped off the blood on his breeches, and stuck the weapon in his belt.
With his free hand, he grasped hers.
“Aye, let us go.”
Inner City Battle
Nothing on Earth—or in Aerisia, for that matter—could’ve prepared me for what had just taken place between Ilgard and me.
Kissing the Simathe High-Chief? Are you crazy?
Maybe I was. Okay, not maybe; clearly, I must be. Not that long ago, I would never, ever have foreseen this happening. I wouldn’t have seen Ilgard initiating it or me responding. I granted that the moment had been right. There had been something in the air, something that temporarily eclipsed the mysteries, the blood, and the pain. Something that went deeper than him and me, our roles in this drama, and perhaps even the Joining bond between us.
Or was this a direct fruit of the bond? Had Aureeyah and Rittean been right all along? Was this somehow destined to be simply because we, a Simathe and the Artan, a man and a woman, were Joined?
My head hurt, and I didn’t think it was only from trying to figure out that kiss. A lot more than simply our relationship had changed tonight, probably permanently. For starters, I’d not only seen my first murder victim, but I’d also killed someone. Furthermore, I’d just accepted the mantle of Artan, for real and for good. Something told me there’d be no backing out now.
Can’t think about that now, can’t think about that now, my brain chanted in time with my feet as we ran.
If I’d stopped to mull over any of it, any single item on the list, I’d have been hopelessly lost. Instead, I took myself back to the moment when Ilgard had vowed to stay with me through whatever we might have to face. Both his promise and his kiss—even now I could feel it on my lips—had bolstered my courage. Without another thought, I’d formed the sword in my hands; tapping into the inner force to create it had also bolstered my courage.
For the time being, fear had fled as I ran with the Simathe High-Chief toward the unmistakable sounds of battle drifting our way. Already, it seemed, fighting had broken out within and without the palace, and it occurred to me to wonder how many the Doinum had managed to turn against us—against me, to be precise—and how many of them would actually be willing to fight.
I looked down at the blade in my hand, regretting it wasn’t Laytrii’s blade. The sword of the former High-Chieftess of Aerisia had become like a part of me. Since the day I’d gotten it, I hadn’t used another. Heading into the unknown, something familiar would’ve been nice, but then…
I glanced up at the man beside me. Maybe he was all the familiarity I needed.
Slipping through a deserted servants’ corridor, we entered the palace courtyard via a small side entrance. We almost made it through the eerily silent gardens before we encountered the first resistance. From the dim
shadows of the enclosed courtyard, a dark figure in a shapeless robe materialized, ostensibly from the stones of the wall itself. Ilgard saw the creature before I did. Before the Doinum had time to raise its gory mace, the Simathe struck with lightning speed, slicing head from shoulders in a single, fluid motion. Clapping a hand over my mouth to keep from crying out, I watched the head fly through the air and land with a dull, sickening thump on the rich soil several paces away.
I wanted to be ill, but I clamped down on the nausea. There was no time for squeamishness, just action.
I followed the grim, determined warrior past the bleeding corpse without a word. Displaying a surprisingly intimate knowledge of the intricacies of the palace’s interior, Ilgard led me through a series of narrow, winding passageways I’d never seen before, until we ultimately emerged outside into the huge open courtyard.
Oh no. No, no, no.
I gaped, momentarily paralyzed by the hideous melee. Doinum in shapeless robes, emitting animal grunts and displaying insane, animal strength, fought against armored Ranetron and a few scattered Simathe. As I’d feared, also recognizable among the moonlit figures were servants and more palace guards, courtiers and folk from the nearby city of Laytrii—and these were fighting against us.
How did the Doinum do this? What sort of power do they wield that they could convince these people to fight and die like this? I don’t understand it!
I jumped, startled, when my companion gave my shoulder a hard squeeze. He leaned close to my ear and practically shouted to be heard above the noise.
“Stay with me, my lady. No matter what happens, do not leave my side.”
I nodded vigorously, my sweaty hands clenching the hilt of my sword in a death grip. Panic threatened once again until the Simathe looked deep into my eyes, holding me there…and suddenly the oddest sensation of peace, assurance, and even calm stole through my veins, driving away fear and doubt. At first, I thought I really was losing my mind. I mean, who wouldn’t have been scared to jump into her first battle? Who but an immortal?
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