Fires of Nuala

by Katharine Eliska Kimbriel

  “So why did you do what you did, instead of remaining in Atare?” Wrapping a thick towel around himself to protect from chill, Sheel wondered if he had the courage to ask Darame that question.

  Walking back to the main room, Sheel found it deserted — except for Darame. She was seated near the fire, carefully combing out her long, silver locks of hair. Furs were piled several deep around her feet and legs, spilling over the back of the chair she sat in. Somewhere she had found her bag, and slipped on a sleeveless silk top. It does nothing to conceal… But then no one was there to see. Pulling the huge towel tighter around his waist, Sheel moved over to her side and knelt by the firepit.

  Silence has its own structure, if one knows what to listen for.… Sheel poked at a recent addition to the fire, artistically arranging the pressed sticks and increasing the flames. Finally, he reached through the quiet with the first words that occurred to him. “I think I owe you an apology.”

  “I have a terrible temper.” She offered this quickly, not looking at him, still removing tangles from her damp strands. There was tension in the words — as if she were holding herself in check. “Usually I have it under control, but when I am this tired…”

  “I do not know if I can explain this to you,” Sheel started carefully, straightening and turning his head toward her. Her response was to drop her comb in her lap and twist toward him, delicate fingers reaching to rest against his lips.

  “Does it have anything to do with prevailing inclinations?” she asked, her voice as low and vibrant as the first time they exchanged words.

  “Which are?” Always surprising him… For the first time in many, many days, Sheel felt a genuine desire to smile.

  “I cannot speak for others, but I have this overwhelming desire to touch you.” She suited her action to her words, trailing the tips of her nails across his cheek and down the protruding muscle to the clavicle.

  Unexpected behavior often swept him past the “What?” and to the “Why?” So he asked “Why?”, regretting both the wariness in his voice and the increased thunder of his pulse, wishing her answer was not so important to him.

  His reward was a rueful chuckle. “You do not know? It took me quite a while to understand it; but I think that, deep inside, I knew when I first saw you at that party — long before Iver’s drink saturated us both.” Darame’s wicked grin popped out, and she added: “You were all the colors of the rainbow, while everything else blurred into grey.” The elegant silver eyebrows lifted slightly, inquisitive.

  There was no way to reply to that in words, so Sheel did not make the attempt. Instead he reached up and took several handfuls of silver hair, drawing her face closer to his. Only for a moment, filling his senses with spice… reminding him of what had filled his dreams. Then he rose to his feet, seizing her hands and drawing her up from the chair.

  “Come… Too many eyes watching this fire.” His own voice was unusually husky.

  “Since when does an Atare have privacy?” Darame whispered, still firmly holding onto his left hand and clutching a fur to her body with her free arm.

  “You of all people should know that there is a way around every rule,” he answered cryptically, kissing her palm and drawing her toward the niche he had reclaimed only that day.

  o0o

  Anger still threaded her thoughts, her body. He could feel it, a tension born of something other than need. Wrapped in the warmth of several furs and each other, Sheel doubted this was a good time to pursue it… except that this was not a woman to leave angry for long. Except that while pulling her into an entwined embrace, he discovered that her face was damp from tears. Letting fingers creep up to the form lying on top of him, he checked… Yes, tears.…

  Are you angry at me or for me? And why do you weep? Puzzlement wove in and out of his thoughts, jumbled hopelessly with exhaustion and desire. Too tired, too preoccupied to analyze hormones, mineral levels. No more than warmth could trickle into a lover, not when he was this interested in what was happening.…

  She pulled back suddenly, supporting herself on her hands, letting the cool air of the cave creep across their bellies. Not fair to leave her so… confused.… “Are you angry at me or for me?” he whispered suddenly, wondering if he should prepare for a blow.

  Folding against him, the answer was half-chuckle, half-sob. It was all the answer he received, for a time, although the tension surrounding them dissipated. Determined to shake her from whatever troubled her thoughts, Sheel pulled them both upright against the stone wall backing the kitchen stove, adding the warmth to their pleasure. It did not take as long as he had feared to distract her.… She had wanted his touch as much as she’d wanted to touch him. And he had dreamed of her perfection.…

  Later, buried under blankets and fur, with Darame tightly wound around him, Sheel gave himself to the exhaustion. So what if this had fed his tiredness; it had been worth it.…

  “I do not care whether there is a Nualan word or not,” Darame mumbled suddenly. “White is a ‘bastard,’ and I am going to cut his balls off.”

  Sheel choked back a laugh. “Mailan has designs on his balls. Will you settle for some other part?”

  Fingers pinched the skin covering his ribs. “Beast. That he could do this to you, after swearing that oath to your house! And Brant…” He could feel her fury increase even as she gently touched the vanishing bruise on his face.

  “Are you going to snarl at me whenever you are mad at someone else?” Half-serious, half-teasing.

  Surprised, Darame’s building anger evaporated as she relaxed against him. “Ah… probably,” she admitted weakly.

  Pinning his laughter behind a broad set of dimples, Sheel reached with both arms to hug her tightly. I am terrified — you will be a fiercer bodyguard than Mailan! “I will get used to it,” he whispered in her ear, nuzzling the elegant curve of her throat.

  “Huh.” Kissing the tip of his nose, she snuggled into the hollow of his shoulder. “Wise of you; it will save misunderstandings.” In another moment she had surfaced again, responding to his laughter. “Are you always going to laugh at the way I say things?”

  “Probably.” It was faint, between chuckles.

  “Do you know how to fly a methplane?” she asked crossly.

  “What?”

  “Do you — “

  “No. Why?” He wished he could see her face.

  “Good. I do not have to kill you after all.” Kissing him lightly, she curled up against him, pointedly ignoring his laughter.

  Flash Point:

  a point (as of interest, tension, region,

  or time) at which someone or something

  flares suddenly into action.

  Chapter Fourteen

  CEDARPOINT, STARRISE MOUNTAINS

  TWOHUNDRED EIGHTYDAY, TIERCE

  Finally, Darame understood what helped these northerners survive the depths of their winters; deep in their hearts was buried the knowledge of spring. Now that she had watched it blossom for herself, she began to see how such a memory could breed endurance. Standing before the entrance to Fergus’s cavern, letting the rising star warm her face, Darame felt a leap in her spirits.

  Cedarpoint had experienced almost two moons of slowly warming temperatures — Avis claimed that to the south the process had started still another moon previous — but it had not touched Darame’s soul. Too much threatening from the coast… Leaning against the rocks, Darame listened for familiar voices. Mailan was up, arguing about breakfast with young Frost; Crow’s whistle echoed in the linked caves behind. Avis was insisting in a strident voice that she did not need her cloak outside, while Sheel… Yes, Sheel was with whom she was arguing. A smile quirked Darame’s lips; why did Avis bother? Sheel always won arguments.… Well, almost always; Darame had arranged the final word in a few disagreements. But Sheel always won when up against Avis.

  Of course he only argues if it is really important, Darame admitted to herself. That was part of his deceptive strength: letting others have their way
so often. With some rulers, that would breed arrogance in subordinates, but not with Sheel. What was it about him that exuded confidence?

  Heating up, that argument, at least on Avis’s part. Not good for her; arguments made her tired.… Darame strolled back into the meeting room.

  Avis spied her first. “Darame! He is cosseting me!” Quite indignant, and close to tears — Avis with her hormones in flux was a weepy personality.

  “Is he? Probably taking his revenge for all that coddling you gave him when you first got here,” Darame suggested, taking the fur cloak from Camelle’s hands and nodding her away. Sheel lifted his gaze to the stalactites above the artificially widened room, but said nothing.

  This new tactic surprised Avis. “I did not!”

  “You did not? Who was constantly trying to keep him lying down? Or with his feet up? Who kept asking Xena if there was anything he should be taking for his ‘infirmities’?” Darame went on, shaking out the cloak.

  “He was very ill!” Avis started to fold her arms and paused; she found the new ledge where her stomach used to be embarrassing, and avoided placing her hands on it.

  “‘Was’ is the operative word. You know that healers mend quickly,” Darame reminded her. “And you know that a healer always has a good reason why you should do something — even if it sounds stupid.” This piece of reasoning left both Atares puzzled, since neither came out a clear winner. Bringing the cloak to Avis, Darame said softly: “You must think of compromises on these things, Avis. It is cold in the shade. So wear the cloak; but if you happen to find a bright spot shielded from the wind, and choose to pause awhile, then of course you will remove it.”

  This reasoning immediately calmed Avis. “You think of everything!” Beaming, she let Darame help her with the cloak. “But he was supposed to be taking some things for his infirmities, you know. He was just stubborn.”

  Bringing her lips to Avis’s ear, Darame murmured: “There is nothing infirm about him — trust me.”

  Giggling and blushing fiercely, Avis tugged the off-worlder’s dragging feet toward the entrance. “You do that on purpose!” she accused the woman, finally releasing her and going out past the boulders.

  “Yes,” Darame admitted softly, crossing her arms over her ribs. “I find it hysterical how blunt you Nualans are about everything, including sex — except within your own family. Sweet Saints, Avis, he must have nearly two dozen children counting the mountain crew. And how do you think you got this way?”

  Another serious giggling session, followed up by Camelle’s smile. “Will you come?” the older woman asked as she passed by Darame.

  “In a bit, perhaps. It… is still cold for me. I need more tea first.” Waving cheerfully to them, Darame waited until they were on the trail to the cedar grove before she strolled back to the firepit.

  Sheel had prudently withdrawn to the fire during the last moments of negotiation. When he finally looked up at her, his expression was pure mischief. “Just how did you talk her into wearing it?” he asked, handing her a mug of hot tea.

  Her smile returned as she accepted the drink. “What, and give away all my secrets? I wondered if you’d heard that business.”

  “It was probably either something a healer would frown on, or something an older brother should not imagine his sister talks about,” he replied quickly, settling by the flames.

  “Both.” As a vulpine grin crossed the man’s face, she added: “I will give you pointers. Next time I will be the bad guy and you can rescue her.”

  Shaking his head, Sheel reached for a thick slice of cheese from the platter on the squat table between them. “She is tired of being pregnant, and I do not blame her. It is a great deal of weight for her small frame, and the womanchild will be large.” He had told Avis the fetus’s sex the day after their arrival.

  “A daughter,” Darame murmured, twitching a fur over her lower legs and grateful she had packed her black pants. Camelle had explained that daughters were hoped for first, since the line went through the women. Laws even allowed intact inheritance through one generation of solely female issue. But the preference was for both daughter and son.… “It is more the psychological pressure, Sheel. I think she fears…” Darame hated to say the word aloud.

  “Assassins?” Sheel did not continue.

  As they sat in silence, a small group of guaard passed, heading for the outside. Darame recognized none of them. There was the problem — and the blessing, to be sure. In twos and threes, singularly and in groups, guaard kept showing up at Fergus’s cave. It was fascinating to Darame, this trickle effect. Mailan had tried to explain it, when Darame had finally turned her attention away from Sheel long enough to notice the increasing numbers of troops.

  We do not think for ourselves, remember? Mailan had said. To ask questions, to inquire into the state of affairs would not be seemly. So they listened, and reasoned for themselves… and started looking for us. We have people placed to intercept most of them.… That they know The Atare is well and returning soon is enough. She did not elaborate further, except to offer Darame an impressively fierce grin when asked how they were sifting out potential enemies.

  “But none of the assassins were real guaard,” Darame said aloud.

  Sheel did not lift his head. “No, they were impostors, trying to get close enough to inflict damage.” It was as if he had known what she was thinking. “I hope that means there are few true guaard left in this conspiracy.” His expression grew wooden. “I will not forgive whoever sent the last one.”

  The last… ah. Meant for Avis, that one. Came within an arm’s length of succeeding. Only Crow’s lightning reflexes had stopped the intruder, pinning him to the rocks with one of those monstrous knives the guaard carried. Not even a ruffled hair for Avis, although she had quietly fainted after it was over. What had Sheel told Crow? Very nice, much smoother than last time. Something like that… The inner circle was still composed of familiar faces.

  “How many now?” she asked suddenly, refusing his offer of a piece of yellow cheese. Dear God, no food — and don’t let him notice.

  “At least half of them know that there are traitors in their ranks.”

  And there were only five hundred active guaard. Word was certainly spreading.… Some had conversed with Riva Ragäree’s guaard, Mailan had said, but she had not named a figure.

  “But that boy gave no number before he… died.” The young man who had slit his wrists was not often discussed. Sheel had never had a chance to question him. Indeed, it was the news that Sheel was well enough to talk to him that apparently triggered his successful suicide attempt. Varden had started a confession of sorts before his life ran out.… Written on the stone wall in his own blood. White and Dirk were the only names mentioned. One disturbed youth — and why was he so upset? what had they used to threaten him? — was not enough evidence, at least to implicate Leah and Brant. The rings I found were bad, but none of them ordered Sheel’s death, she thought dully. We have so little.…

  If only Leah was not involved… or an off-worlder. Darame had almost lost her recent battle with her stomach when she’d discovered that Sheel could walk up to Dirk and slit his throat without giving much of a reason. Absolute monarchs had that right. They remained absolute by only doing it when it was both necessary and self-evident. Had Dirk finally become self-evident?

  “No. No one knows how many conspirators are left.” Leaning on one elbow, Sheel reached over and laid long fingers across her limp wrist. Excessive warmth, healing warmth passed into her arm.

  “Now who is cosseting whom?” Darame moved away, but she smiled as she said it. Shouts outside interrupted her train of thought. Voices called for Mailan, to come and identify newcomers. “More guaard?”

  “Most likely. I have despaired of anyone else.” His expression did not change, but she knew he worried about several supporters who had simply vanished. Fergus had sent his people out on their spring rounds. Maybe they would learn something.…

  “Atare!” It
was Ayers, his long stride carrying him up to the firepit with ease. “The Portland group has finally arrived!” Ayers looked overjoyed, craning his neck to see how far away the new arrivals might be while trying to face Sheel with a modicum of dignity.

  Off-duty, Darame decided. A twinge from her queasy stomach momentarily terrified her. They will know — She chose to remain by the firepit while Sheel straightened, standing and moving to a high-backed chair Avis had declared a makeshift throne. That is right, not at the door, Mailan would be appalled — Her thoughts cut off at the familiar stooped figure entering the cavern.

  Old Harald. By all the saints, he had finally arrived! The dame behind him… his wife, the famous cook of the tavern? Mendülay, our stomachs are saved! Frost had about six things he could cook well… everything else varied dramatically from day to day. I bet you can evict him, old mother — I had no luck.

  Excited voices extended greetings and questions, but they lowered to a whisper as Harald walked deliberately over to Sheel. Slowly, with the air of a born courtier, Harald lowered himself to one knee. Carefully unfastening the cinch of a pocket, he withdrew a securing chain. Ah, the long-awaited signet. Bowing his head, Harald offered the ring to Sheel.

  Leaning forward, Sheel removed the ring from the gold strand and slipped it on his finger. Wonder of wonders, it almost fit, only the slightest bit loose. Pausing, always uncertain how to respond, Sheel finally set one hand upon the old man’s grey head and whispered something to him. Whatever the words conveyed, it was more than enough for Harald, who just as methodically climbed back to his feet and returned smiling to his family.

  “Well, Mailan, it appears you have been appointed guide. Can you situate these people?” Sheel asked quietly.

  “We are already making arrangements, Atare,” she replied.