Crystal Moon

by Elysa Hendricks

  as Sianna lifted her hands from atop his. Reality reasserted

  itself, and he dismissed his odd reaction as an effect of breathing

  nika fumes. The drug was known to cause strange hallucinations.

  Then why did confusion darken her eyes? Why did the

  removal of her touch leave him feeling alone and forsaken?

  Before he could question his logic, she turned her attention

  back to Graham and made quick work of stitching and bandaging

  his wounds.

  She straightened, looked at the two soldiers waiting and

  said quietly, “It is done. You may leave.”

  The two men looked to Kyne for confirmation and at his

  nod left the room. After the door shut behind them, he was

  surprised to find the chamber seemed smaller rather than larger

  with their absence. The cloying smell of nika and blood couldn’t

  drown out Sianna’s clean, fresh scent.

  “Graham will live.”

  Her words filled his heart as her presence filled the chamber

  and his senses. He forced himself to remember who she was

  and not to reach out for her. “Will he walk?”

  “Perhaps. I am unsure.” Her gentle eyes filled with sorrow

  as she looked up at him. “If not, will he hate me for saving

  him?”

  At her ragged confession, his heart softened. He didn’t

  doubt her affection for Graham. Did guilt torment her as it did

  him? Could either of them find redemption?

  Not a hint of color touched her cheeks or lips. Her dark

  hair hung limp and lusterless. Set in a face as white and dry as

  crystal dust but without its sparkle, her eyes glittered feverishly.

  “You are ill?” Concern for her welfare made him uneasy.

  He should take pleasure in her downfall, as she had in Aubin’s,

  but he saw not a fierce enemy, rather a small, exhausted woman.

  “No. No,” she rasped, her shoulders drooping. “Tired.

  Healing drains me.”

  “Return to our chamber and rest.” How easily the words

  slid off his tongue, our chamber. How quickly she managed to

  fill that space with her presence, her scent. When she wasn’t

  there the space felt barren, abandoned—like his heart.

  “I cannot leave Graham. There is much I yet need to do.”

  Her hands soothed and stroked over Graham.

  Squinting against the dim chamber light, Kyne tried to

  discount the faint glow that followed the path of her hands as

  naught but a reflection of the wavering lamplight.

  Graham stirred once. A grimace started to form, but with a

  murmur and a gentle touch of Sianna’s hand, he sighed and

  relaxed. With each line that disappeared from his rugged face

  hers grew more strained, as if through her touch she absorbed

  his suffering into herself.

  Pain no longer etched Graham’s features, and he appeared

  almost youthful in his peaceful slumber.

  With a tired sigh, she let her hands fall away from him into

  her lap, and the glow evanesced.

  What magic did she practice? Thoughts of the strange

  connection he ofttimes felt at her touch filled Kyne with

  foreboding. He remembered how anger and pain evaporated

  beneath the feel of her fingers on his flesh. What kind of healer,

  woman, had such power?

  “Do you practice the black arts? Are you a witch?” Despite

  his disbelief, he blurted the questions.

  Distress flared in her eyes then faded to melancholy. She

  shook her head. “I merely have a special gift for healing.” A

  small, sad smile touched her pale lips. “If I were a witch I’d not

  be here, would I?”

  She spoke true. He laughed at his own sudden, irrational

  fear of a creature that existed only in superstitious minds.

  “Graham sleeps, so should you. Leave him.”

  “I can’t. He needs me.”

  “You’ve done what you can. Now his fate is in the hands

  of the Eternal One. Rest. You’ll need your strength to deal with

  Graham when he wakes. He’ll chafe at his own weakness and

  will sore test your patience as he heals. Althea or Betha can sit

  with him for a time while you rest. You’ll be no good to him if

  you collapse.”

  She smiled and cast a fond gaze over Graham. “I pray this

  injured sardak soon growls again.”

  Her voice trailed away.

  Kyne caught and lifted her in his arms as she crumbled. As

  insubstantial as a wisp of summer cloud, she nestled against his

  chest. Her eyes drifted shut and her warm breath kissed the

  skin of his throat. A shiver coursed through him and he tightened

  his arms around her slender, pliant body.

  With a tired sigh, she nodded and let her head fall back

  against his shoulder, her entire body going lax.

  “Sleep,” she murmured and placed her palm over his heart.

  Like the feel of blue mountain crystal, cold seeped through

  his shirt from her hand and chilled his flesh. Gathering her close,

  he headed toward the door.

  As he battled to hold on to his anger and hatred, Kyne’s

  heart and conscience stirred at the trust she gave him. This

  woman was the enemy, the daughter of DiSanti, architect of

  his family’s and his country’s destruction. He could not allow

  himself to soften toward her. To do so threatened not only his

  heart but the lives and well-being of his people. She could be

  nothing more to him than a weapon to end her father’s reign of

  terror.

  But neither would he see her abused. Outside the chamber,

  he spoke briefly to the hovering Althea. With a quick nod she

  hurried into the room to start her vigil at Graham’s side.

  Confident that his honor, if not his heart, was safe, Kyne

  carried the now sleeping Sianna to his chamber. She never

  stirred as he laid her on his bed, stripped off her bloodstained

  tunic, and bathed her hands and face.

  Warda followed close at Kyne’s heels and settled at the

  side of the bed. His shaggy head resting a whisper from Sianna’s

  fingertips, his dark, liquid eyes gazed at Kyne in distress.

  “Easy, boy, she’ll be fine after some sleep. Your mistress is

  just worn out,” Kyne soothed the hound and himself.

  How innocent she appeared, almost childlike, fragile limbs

  relaxed, moist lips slightly parted. But the rounded curve of her

  hip and the swell of her full breasts against her simple white

  shift drew his gaze and destroyed the illusion of childhood. Her

  fragrance rose on the warm chamber air. Clean and fresh as a

  mountain meadow, it banished the smell of blood and pain.

  The longer he spent in her company the less he believed

  she disguised an evil heart behind gentle ways. But to concede

  her innocence was to deny vengeance, not a simple choice.

  She moaned, her body twitching in response to some

  nightmare.

  Drawn by an urge to ease and console her as he would

  Zoa, and his own building need to touch this woman, he reached

  for her.

  Guilt battled compassion. Revenge warred with desire. His

  heart grew cold and heavy. This was no child in need of comfort.

  This was a woman grown. A woman whom eviden
ce proved

  had seduced and betrayed his brother.

  Kyne turned and fled.

  Nine

  Unwilling to expose his outrage and fear to DiSanti, Timon

  kept his gaze impassive as he eyed the prisoner lying on the cell

  floor. In the dim dungeon light Timon could see that the man’s

  clothes hung in bloody tatters and his face was swollen so even

  his mother wouldn’t recognize him.

  “Leave me,” he told the guards. “I will question the prisoner

  alone.”

  “But...” DiSanti began to protest. One guard stepped to

  Timon’s side, a subtle threat obvious in the tilt of his spear and

  his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  Timon knew this was not part of DiSanti’s plan, but his

  power, though spreading like a tangled nika root, was still

  circumscribed by the castle guards’ loyalty to the royal family.

  By torturing a prisoner, DiSanti had pushed the limits of his

  authority. With ill-concealed anger he bowed, whirled and left

  the dungeon cell. As he passed Timon, he whispered, “You

  surprise me, pup, but make no mistake, the throne will be mine.

  Soon.”

  Dread slithered down Timon’s spine. DiSanti made no idle

  threats.

  The two castle guards also paid homage to Timon, their

  bows deeper and sincere, before they too turned and left.

  Closing the door they took up a position just outside.

  The sour smells of blood, urine and fear churned Timon’s

  stomach. Despite the loyalty of the castle guards there was

  little he could do against DiSanti’s growing power outside the

  castle walls. Evidence of his increasing control huddled in the

  dank dungeon cells. During King Dracken’s rule the dungeons

  had gone unused. Now the moans and cries of the imprisoned

  echoed down the dark, narrow corridors.

  Cramming his fear into a corner of his mind, Timon turned

  and, ignoring the dirt floor, knelt next to the prisoner. “You wished

  to speak with me?”

  The man’s one uninjured eye opened. He studied Timon in

  the dim light. “Prince Timon?” he rasped.

  “Yes. You are a messenger for those who kidnapped my

  betrothed? What is it they demand for her release?”

  The man struggled to sit up. Timon moved to help, but the

  man glared until Timon withdrew. Bracing his back against the

  damp stone wall, he stared at Timon and asked, “Are we alone?”

  Timon could barely hear the man’s hoarse whisper, a result

  no doubt of screaming. Anger tightened Timon’s resolve. He

  must find a way to break DiSanti’s control, to regain his kingdom

  and his family. But how? Did this barely breathing man hold the

  key? Were there others outside the castle walls who fought

  DiSanti’s hold on Dramon? “What demands do these kidnappers

  claim? Money?”

  “No. The girl is nothing but a pawn to gain DiSanti’s

  attention...and yours. Because you are but a lad, Rul Cathor

  thinks you are innocent of your father and DiSanti’s destruction

  of Dramon. Is he right? Or do you follow blindly where they

  lead?”

  The man’s condemnation of his father sparked Timon’s

  own anger. “My father is king. He does naught to destroy his

  country or people.” Though he spoke with vehemence, Timon

  knew his father’s addiction to nika, however unintentional, was

  what had thrown Dramon into DiSanti’s hands. If something

  was not done soon, there would be no turning back.

  Anger faded out of the man’s eyes. “And DiSanti?”

  “I follow no man. I am crown prince and until my father is

  well enough to once again sit upon his throne, I rule in his stead.”

  A small smile twitched at the man’s swollen lips. “Well

  spoken, young prince. I’m Je’al. Perhaps the news I bear will

  help you to do just that.”

  Timon listened closely as Je’al told him of the building

  resistance to DiSanti’s harsh rule, the growing rebellion among

  the people. Rage built within Timon. He’d known DiSanti was

  putting undue pressure on Dramon’s populace, but isolated in

  the castle with little access to news from the outside, he’d not

  realized how bad things had become.

  “Does Rul Cathor have your support in ridding Dramon of

  DiSanti?” Je’al finished on a wheezing breath and slid back to

  the ground.

  At that moment Timon realized Je’al was only a few annum

  his senior. What courage did it take for this young man to risk

  his life to come to him? What had Je’al lost to DiSanti’s greed?

  “I’ll do what I can, but my power is fading. With each

  passing day more Ruls pledge their allegiance to DiSanti. Only

  a few, along with the castle guard, are still loyal to the royal

  family. And DiSanti holds my mother and sister to guarantee

  my cooperation.”

  How could he risk his mother, his sister? And what of his

  father, that withered, mindless man locked away in his room

  eating nika? What choice did he have?

  “My sympathies, but many have lost family to DiSanti’s

  ever-growing ambition. Will you sacrifice all of Dramon to keep

  yours safe?”

  Timon rose and turned away from Je’al. The man’s question

  opened his eyes, and grief blossomed in his soul. His mother

  and sister were already lost to him. He had no choice to make.

  “DiSanti must fall. Be ready.”

  “Ready for what?” Je’al reached out and snagged Timon’s

  robe. “What do you plan?”

  Timon didn’t turn. “Your escape.”

  Ten

  The next morning Althea rose as Kyne entered the small

  chamber where she sat with Graham.

  “Sit,” Kyne told her. Graham’s pale and drawn features

  were a match for Sianna’s. “How does he fare?”

  “Well enough. The drug has faded from his system, and he

  now sleeps a normal sleep. Your woman is a skillful healer.

  Graham will live, and he will keep his legs, but...” she paused,

  her watery eyes full of sorrow. “I doubt he will walk again.”

  His woman. The rest of Althea’s words lost meaning. With

  all that had happened he had forgotten his pretense of Sianna

  being his woman. The deception worked too well. Everyone

  within the castle sang her praises, and he found himself

  somewhat disconcerted by their not-so-subtle interest in his

  bedchamber activities. What would be their reaction when they

  learned the truth? Who would bear the brunt of their anger?

  Sianna? Or himself?

  No matter. Graham would live. But could he resign himself

  to life as a cripple?

  “His dressings need changing, but I hesitate to disturb him

  before necessary,” Althea said. “I fear when he wakes, the

  pain will be intense.”

  Graham stirred, gave a low groan and opened his eyes. He

  squinted up at Kyne. “Blast. I knew I’d end up consigned to

  Oblivion, but I didn’t think the Unredeemed would be so damned

  ugly.”

  A chuckle started deep in Kyne’s chest and grew to a shout

  of laughter. Despair slipped from his shoulders l
ike a heavy

  cloak on a warm day.

  “Cease cackling like a mad rooster and get me a drink. My

  throat is drier than a landbound water worm.”

  Kyne’s laughter slowed as the forced quality of Graham’s

  humor registered. He leaned over and helped Graham sit up.

  After gulping two cups of water, Graham slid back against

  the wall and sighed. “Better.” He looked at Althea. “Good healer,

  would you see to obtaining me some food? My legs were broken,

  not my innards. I’m hungry,” he complained.

  A grin broke over the old healer’s wrinkled face as she

  nodded and hurried to do Graham’s bidding.

  “Are you in any pain?” Kyne asked.

  “Of course I’m in pain, you moon-cursed fool,” Graham

  growled, shifted his hips and grimaced.

  “Would you have a draft to kill the pain?” Kyne reached

  for the flask of nika root infusion Sianna had left. At the moment,

  nika seemed a lesser evil than Graham’s suffering. Somehow

  Kyne knew Graham’s pain did not reside in his limbs.

  Graham stayed his hand. “Pain and I are old friends. I will

  deal with it. What I have need of is....” Color touched his cheeks

  as he directed his glance toward the pot hidden beneath the

  bed.

  “Graham?”

  Two male heads swiveled to the doorway where Katya

  stood poised to enter. Dressed in sadly rumpled clothing, her

  blonde hair tangled around her tear-stained face, she looked

  more child than woman, but the love and hope shining in her

  eyes as they settled on Graham told Kyne she was no little girl.

  Graham’s injury had forced her beyond the boundary that

  separates girl from woman. Perhaps now she was worthy of

  the love he knew Graham felt for her.

  Humor drained from Graham’s face, and he stiffened.

  “Graham?” Kyne’s usually brash young sister took a

  tentative step into the chamber and looked to Graham for

  welcome and reassurance.

  “I wish no visitors.” Closing his eyes, Graham slid down on

  the bed and effectively shut himself away from Katya.

  Her face crumpled. Tears sprang to her eyes as she turned

  and dashed away.

  “What did you do that for?” Kyne demanded. He wanted

  to shake Graham. Not only for hurting Katya, but for the hurt