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JARAD’S RETURN
By
Louise Crawford
© copyright August 2004, Louise Crawford
Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright August 2004
New Concepts Publishing
5202 Humphreys Rd.
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.
Prologue
Jarad followed his wife into the large tent set up for the meeting of the ruling council. They were early, the two of them alone. He encircled her in his arms and brushed his lips across hers. Lilas, as small and lithe as the day they met, smiled up at him, her dark eyes bright with joy. It lit his heart. She lit his heart. Because of her, he’d learned to love again. To trust in the Goddess again. Every day, for over seventeen years, he thanked Syrith for Lilas and his daughter. All the grief and despair over his first wife’s death now felt like an ancient dream.
"Mama. Papa." His daughter stopped just inside the tent. Her dark eyes and dusky skin resembled those of her mother, but her silvery hair and her height, both Syrithian traits, came from him.
They both opened their arms and Leandra returned their embrace. He kissed the top of her head. She gave him a look of entreaty. He playfully tugged on her braid. "What?"
"If we have a truce with the Kahns, will Rhiannon have to marry the prince and live with him?"
"If she weds him, yes. But that day may never come. The Kahns have offered treaties before and broken them."
"She doesn’t want to marry the prince. She wants to go with me to join the border guard. Will you talk to Uncle Rathyn?"
"We haven’t decided if you will go," Lilas said, beating Jarad to the words. "And Rathyn and Mariah are a part of the council. The council will decide what is best for all, including the princess. And you."
"But she’s my best friend. Uncle Rathyn and Aunt Mariah will listen to you. So will the council."
A sudden gust of wind howled through the tent, whipping the flaps and blowing out the torches. A chill crept over his skin. He felt as though he were sinking in icy water and for a moment he couldn’t breathe.
He shook off the foreboding and hugged Lilas and Leandra harder. Leandra laughed and squirmed free, saying, "I’ll leave you alone."
He almost called her back. But she ducked from the tent before the words came.
Later, Kahn battle cries filling his ears as he fought for his life, he suddenly remembered the deep terror in his belly and cursed himself for ignoring the warning. And when he heard his daughter cry, "Daddy!" before falling beneath three Kahn swords, saw his wife dragged to the ground by Kahn war lords, he once more lost himself to grief and despair.
Chapter One
The Kahn guard twisted the key to unlock Jarad’s manacles, first at the ankles, then the wrists. The metal snapped open, the sound sharp as breaking bones. They fell from his limbs with a clinking sound that might have been pleasant in some other circumstance. Without their weight he felt like a ship cut from its mooring, adrift on an endless sea of pain. Numb and exhausted, he watched the guard snatch the chains from the ground then retreat to the safety of his horse. Jarad’s other two escorts, also on horseback, he knew well: Rathyn and Mariah, leaders of the Syrithian-Chadyk Empire. Rathyn, tall and thick as a tree-trunk, his skin tanned bronze, grey at the temples of his dark hair was nothing like the silver-haired, silvery skinned Syrithians, Mariah’s and Jarad’s people. But Rathyn had earned Jarad’s loyalty on and off the battlefield. Until the Kahns attacked six moons earlier. The Kahn king was dead and the prince had wed Rathyn’s daughter. They had a treaty. One he would never support. His friends, now turned to jailers, shifted uneasily under his scrutiny.
He gave no thanks when Rathyn handed him his sword belt and two water skins, nor did he acknowledge the sorrow in Mariah’s silver-blue eyes. He felt trapped in the dark god’s domain. He’d never thought his friends would turn their backs on him--not for a treaty with those Kahn butchers. Not for anything.
"Please, Jarad. Swear to honor the peace treaty and return with us," Mariah said.
He could see she did not expect him to survive the desert. If he tried to follow them and cross back into the Syrithian mountains, a Syrithian arrow would end his life quickly, but he would not have his revenge. "You may banish me, but you cannot banish the hate in my heart. I have sworn vengeance on the Kahns and I will have it."
Rathyn shifted on his horse, his mouth a tight line of regret. "Enough blood has been spilled, Jarad. This treaty is for our future. Our children--" He broke off, apology flaring in his eyes.
That apology did not lessen the sharp sting of his words. "Kahns murdered my child, Rathyn. How will this treaty help her?"
"I’m sorry," Rathyn said softly.
"Please, Jarad," Mariah said. "Don’t choose this path. Swear to honor the treaty and return with us."
At his continued silence, the three retreated. Mariah, tears in her eyes, was the last to rein her horse around. But those tears could not undo the last six moons. They could not bring back his wife and daughter.
Rathyn and Mariah led their warriors up the mountain pass in single-file, then vanished from his line of sight. All along the border, though, horsemen appeared to ensure he did not return that way. Syrithian and Chadyk soldiers. Of course. Rathyn knew Jarad would not kill his own people. Had they been Kahns.... His throat tightened. By the Goddess, this couldn’t be happening. But the stillness in the air, the rising heat, the sweat dripping between his shoulder blades, insisted this was quite real. If he tried to return now he would be hunted, his life worth a bag of Chadyk gold.
Turning his back to the guards, he started in an easterly direction. Despite the healing wounds on his back and chest, his steps were long and steady. He was used to walking. But as the first day turned into the next, and the next, and the sun grew hotter, the sand dunes higher, only more of the blinding whiteness on the horizon, he wondered if he’d ever make it across the desert ocean.
By the fifth day, he knew he was cursed. Why else would the Goddess abandon him like this? Syrith had turned Her back on him, just as his friends had. Scorching air seared his lungs with each breath. Every step on the hot sand burned through the soles of his boots. Sand swirled about his face, stung his eyes, filled his mouth with grit while the harsh unrelenting sunlight beat upon his face until his lips cracked and his tongue swelled.
He could turn back, try to elude the border guard and find shelter in the mountains. But he knew he wouldn’t make it. He trudged forward. His own people had banished him in favor of his enemies. So be it.
Day blurred into night and night into day. Somehow he kept moving, telling himself the walled city of stories and legends couldn’t be too much farther. Another night passed, his brief sleep broken by the sunrise. Weary to his soul, he shoved to his feet again.
His feet sank deeper into the sand, each step harder than the last. He lost track of time. Death breathed beside him, soft and sweet, and he wished it to make haste. He unfastened his sword, letting it drop to the sand beside his empty water skins and pack. Even with that weight gone, his legs felt heavy and unresponsive. He staggered forward another step, then dropped to his knees. Far behind him, the mountains seemed to laugh, like the Kahns had laughed when they’d raped and murdered his wife.
"Lilas. Sweet wife. I failed you. I failed our daughter." The thought of his daughter, murdered by the Kahns as well, cut his heart anew. "Syrith, Goddess of Light, take me," he rasped. He opened his arms, offering himself up to Her.
Darkness closed on him like a black shadow. His wife’s face floated before him, her brown eyes alive with love, her arms wide to embrace him. Yes, he thought. Yes. Vaguely, he felt something prod his back, shake his arm. A faint voice called to him from beyond the darkness, the words indistinct. Leandra? It sounded like his daughter. His heart leapt with joy until he remembered cradling her lifeless body in his arms.
Lilas’ voice teased his ears. "Jarad, my love, let go of me and live."
He shook his head. The sand shifted beneath him and he realized he was sprawled on his back.
"I am with Syrith, and a part of Her light. Our daughter is with me. And we will always be with you. Do not squander Syrith’s gift of life. Please. Savor each breath She gives. A new life awaits you."
I don’t want a new life. You were my new life. You and our daughter. When the Chadyks killed my first wife, I let go of my hatred. I accepted Rathyn as my friend. And I loved you with all my heart. But I cannot forgive those murdering Kahn bastards--not for the loss of our daughter. Nor for taking you as they did. Nor for what they did to me.
Again he felt something jostle him, like the toe of a boot in his side. He groaned, then sank deeper into welcome oblivion.
* * * *
Murmurs. Indistinct voices hummed around him like annoying flies. A sensation of movement tugged at his consciousness. Jostles and bumps prodded him awake. He squinted against sunlight, tried to lift his arm to shield his eyes, and couldn’t. Was he being held down? He strained to raise his arm and only managed to lift his fingers to his face before the weight became too great. A horse snorted, the fabric beneath him shifted and he realized he lay on a litter. Was the litter tied to the horse? The steady rhythm seemed a confirmation. But whose horse, and where were they headed?
He shut his eyes against the day. Perhaps they were taking him to the Goddess. Except he didn’t know who "they" were, nor how many. He listened for voices, but heard none. His face burned hot beneath the blistering rays and he wondered how long he’d slept. Had he slept? Or was he dead? He recalled Lilas telling him to live, but knew it was only a dream. One he rejected. If death refused to take him, then he would seek it out in battle with the Kahns. Death could not avoid him forever.
The world faded again.
A child’s voice startled him awake.
"Leandra?" His voice sounded like the croak of a frog. He cleared his throat and blinked in the dark. Twenty feet away he saw a campfire and shadowy forms seated beside dying flames. Something stirred on the other side of him and he turned his head, his hand automatically sliding to where he usually wore his sword. Vaguely he recalled dropping his sword belt in the sand.
Don’t you want to die? His inner voice taunted as he strained to see through the blackness. He eased his head down again.
Come and take me, he prayed. He shut his eyes and waited, unable to stop himself from listening for anyone’s approach.
Quiet footsteps accompanied whispered voices, one child-like, one adult, female. They spoke in his tongue, he thought, then frowned as a new voice joined the others. This one spoke Syrithian with a Kahn accent. Two Syrithians riding with a Kahn butcher. He imagined two of his silver-haired people standing beside a short, dark-skinned Kahn with a ragged beard and stringy hair. Had he somehow crossed back into Syrithia and been captured? A fourth voice, deep, ancient, and male, hushed the others in an unfamiliar tongue. They retreated several arm lengths from Jarad and resumed speaking in the ancient’s language. Whatever it was, he couldn’t identify it, and he’d heard every language of the known world, or thought he had.
With slitted eyes, he watched the shadowy group, while searching beneath his blankets for his sword. His strength failed him, and he gave up the idea of a sword fight. His lungs burned from the mere effort to breathe. His entire body burned. Yet he felt cold. Was he sick?
A small, willowy shadow crept from the group toward him. He watched it edge closer and closer, pausing every step to glance back. Slowly, the faint outline of a young girl’s face came into view, looming over him, unaware he watched. Her small hand tentatively reached out and touched his hair, awe written in her parted lips and peering gaze. Was she Syrithian? Kahn? Chadyk? He couldn’t tell while night disguised her.
"Cheyana!" At the sharp female voice, the child jerked her hand back and jumped away, kicking sand over his blankets.
The child rejoined the group. It parted into two, one group drawing close, the other remaining still.
Jarad wished he could clearly see the woman and child who approached. She must be at least part Syrithian to speak his language, he decided.
"You are awake?" she asked in his tongue, her accent barely discernable.
"Yes," he admitted, hating how weak his voice sounded.
She held out a water skin. His arm shook as he gripped the strap. It slipped from his fingers. Without a word, the child picked it up, unfastened the stopper and held it to his lips. Cold trickled into his mouth. Water. More flowed over his chin and down his neck. He swallowed, lifted his head, swallowed more, then lay back again. Gathering his strength, he asked, "Where am I?"
The child glanced at the woman. She answered, "Near Etyria. We travel to the uncharted lands."
He’d heard stories of the uncharted lands, and imagined them many years travel from Syrithia. His traverse of the Kahn desert wavered in his mind like a mirage. "I was in the desert." He strained to see her more clearly, but all he could discern was the smooth line of her chin suggesting an oval-shaped face, and large dark eyes. "Am I your prisoner?"
He sensed surprise in her expression though he couldn’t see it. "Should you be?" she asked, curiosity in her tone.
"Are you Kahn?" he asked.
"We make no distinction of race here. I am of the Mother, as are you, that is enough."
He wanted to retort that it was not enough, that he hated Kahns and would gladly kill them all to slake his thirst for vengeance, but he had no breath left for words. The tightness in his chest grew suffocating. Desperate to breathe, he rolled sideways, coughing and wheezing.
He felt the woman straddle him, then a sharp whack between his shoulder blades. Pain radiated from the blow like he’d been stabbed with a hot poker. But the constriction around his chest eased. Sucking in air, he lay back, and breathed through the pain. Questions crowded his thoughts, but his eyelids grew heavy and before he could voice them, the world faded away.
He awakened to the bumps and jostles of the litter again. Two grooves of flattened grass flowed beyond his feet from being dragged. In the distance, the desert shimmered like melted gold. Trees overhead offered shade from the midday sun, their large three-pronged leaves as unfamiliar as the strange scent in the air. Sharp. Tangy. It reminded him of the medicinal herbs used by his people. He twisted sideways in order to see the back of the horse, and its rider--a child. The horse was white, but did not have the silver hooves associated with one of his people who could transform from woman to horse. Good. This horse he could steal.
That thought shocked him. He was no thief. He valued truth and honesty above all else. That was the way of his people.
But your people abandoned you, his inner voice whispered. Mariah and Rathyn banished you to the dark god’s domain instead of helping you wipe out the Kahns. Those are their values. Not yours.
But these people had not wronged him, he mentally argued. To steal from them would be wrong.
Would it? Not every Kahn raped and murdered your wife, yet you would destroy them all.
His hand flexed into a fist. Yes, he thought. He would. The forward movement stopped and the ropes slackened, lowering the litter onto the grass. He closed his eyes, too tired to do otherwise, the sounds of footsteps drifting with him into sleep.
What felt like moments later, he awakened, no longer on the litter, but now lying on a thick quilt. Beneath his palms, he felt cool, silky fabric. Someone had changed his clothing. He shoved himself upward, first to a sitting position, rested a moment, then staggered to his feet, determined to stand. His legs shook from the effort. Just as they threatened to give way, the child ran up, caught his arm and steadied him. She had near black eyes and blue-black hair that fell to her shoulders in tangles. Pale skin showed above the neckline of her light brown robes, her throat and face tanned golden like a Chadyk or Kahn. He’d seen his share of half-Syrithian, half-Chadyk or Kahn children, usually the result of an enemy soldier’s rape, but this child mesmerized him. Her lips broke into a brilliant smile exposing straight white teeth.
His attempt to smile back felt awkward and tense, as though he’d forgotten how. Perhaps he had. "I am called Jarad," he said, using her shoulder as a crutch. Her hands gripped his arm and she urged him to take a step.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Cheyana."
"Where is everyone?"
"Gathering."
Gathering what? "Why did they leave you alone?"
She looked up at him, her brow drawn together in a puzzled frown. "I am not alone. I chose to stay with you."
She obviously meant she was not alone because of him, but who would leave their child to guard an adult? He could easily overpower her. He took another step. Even with the child’s support he could not stop himself from sinking to the ground. No, he thought, she could easily overpower him. "Where’s my sword?" he asked.
"My mother has it."
"Is she the woman I talked to last night?"
Her face tightened with confusion. "You have not spoken for two moons."
Jarad felt a surge of inexplicable panic. "Two moons? That’s impossible!" No, it explained why he felt weak as a newborn babe. But surely he wouldn’t have been able to stand at all after so long a time.
"We have sent you strength and healing energy. You will be strong soon."
They must have a powerful healer. Perhaps that explained why he did not feel ravenous hunger or thirst. The vague memory of being bathed and dressed in clean robes drifted at the edge of his mind. More memories flooded in, of being fed and held, of a woman’s softness embracing him with a mother’s love and tenderness. A faint melody of a song teased his mind, the language similar to his own. It knit golden threads around him, threads that strengthened his muscles, and helped reduce the scaring on his back and chest. Recollection of a burning fever returned. "I was ill, wasn’t I?"
She nodded, too much wisdom in a face so young. "Mother said you were close to death, but you were too young and strong. It could not take you."
"Young?" he scoffed. "I have seen forty summers. She should have let me go."
"It was not up to me," a feminine voice spoke behind him.
He twisted to see. Cheyana’s mother, he thought. Dressed in the same earth-colored robes as her daughter, she looked identical, except for her feminine curves and her height. She stood tall and slender as a Syrithian, which dropped his estimation of Cheyana’s age to six or seven. From his seated position, he stared up at the woman. Her physical appearance fascinated him. Angry at the interest she sparked, he said, "Cheyana said you have my sword. I want it back."
"You are not strong enough to wield it." Her gaze challenged his.
"That is not your concern."
He took her silence to mean she could not return it. "If you gave it to your man--" he began.
A flicker of some unreadable emotion crossed her face. She turned and walked away. A part of his mind urged him to thank her for his life, while another part cursed her for it. Struggling to his feet, he called after her, "Wait!" But when she faced him again, he said, "I did not ask for your help. I wished to die."
She cocked her head as though weighing his words. "You’re lying."
No one had ever accused him of lying in his entire life. Except the Kahns when they’d whipped him and peeled the skin from his back. But that had been an excuse for torture. He flinched at the memory. Then wondered if she’d seen the fresh scars. That thought made him uncomfortable. His back was hideous. He’d seen that truth in his friends’ eyes as they dressed his wounds – before he’d broken the treaty and attacked the Kahn war lords. "Who are you to call me a liar?" he demanded.
"Who am I? I am Xenia." She said it as though proclaiming herself a queen, someone who could call anyone whatever she wished. "And you yourself asked to live. Thus your words that you want to die are a lie. As soon as you are well, you will repay your debt."
"Repay my debt?" Astounded, he raised his voice. "I never asked you to help me. I never asked you for anything!"
She reached out and placed her palm on his forehead. A strange tingling shot through his body along with a sense of warmth. It offered strength, and for a moment it soothed him. "You are much better."
He knocked her hand away. "I told you, I wished to die."
Her gaze shone with disbelief. "No. Your spirit appeared to me and led me to your body. You wished to live."
"My spirit--" Ludicrous. He could see that arguing with her would get him nowhere. But he’d be damned if he owed her anything. She could suffer from whatever delusions she liked. He was not a Seer, his spirit would not leave his body until he died. It was she who owed him a debt--for saving him when he had no wish to be saved. Feeling as though he’d gotten the worst of their exchange, he asked, "Where are the rest of your people?"
"They gather food. Tonight we feast in honor of you. A Syrithian of the four tribes."
All Syrithians belonged to a tribe. His had been the Water Tribe. The exception was the Syrithian Wanderers who didn’t belong to the tribes, but lived scattered along Syrithia’s distant borders. Borders he’d left far behind. "What do you mean--of the four tribes?"
A mischievous grin broke across her face. It made her look even younger and made him feel as ancient as the ground beneath his feet. She didn’t answer.
He glanced at the little girl, silently imploring an explanation. "We are of the ancient ways," the child said.
Not the explanation he hoped for. He looked toward Xenia, but saw only the fleeting image of her back before she vanished beyond the underbrush. "Wanderers?" he asked Cheyana, for he could think of no other group. Perhaps they had brought him back into Syrithia after all, and Xenia had lied about the uncharted lands.
Cheyana sank down beside him on the grass. "Before the Wanderers."
At whatever she saw in his expression, she said in a sing-song voice, "In ancient times a great leader arose in Syrithia. She and her son, Paixyr, led many to follow her into the uncharted lands where all could live in peace. We are the remnant of that group." She smiled at him, her dark eyes full of life and happiness. "And now, so are you."
"There must be hundreds of your people, then," he said, trying to ignore her last statement. He was not a part of them. He had only one desire, to kill Kahns until he, too, died.
She nodded, her curls bouncing like dark ribbons.
Excited, he asked, "Are they warriors? Trained to fight?" Had Syrith led him here to give him an army? It must be, he thought. Why else did She shun his pleas for death?
"We may fight to defend ourselves--if we want to," Cheyana said.
"If you want to? What do you mean?"
"You don’t know very much for your age."
Her blunt statement surprised him so much that he laughed. The sound startled him. He could not remember the last time he’d laughed. Nor did he wish to. He clamped his lips together. "Mayhaps you could be my friend and teach me," he said.
Another wide smile lit her face. "Jarad of the Water Tribe, I accept your offer of friendship." She held her palm out toward him. He stared at it, then realized he was supposed to do the same. He hesitated, thinking this resembled the Kahn ritual of clasping hands to signify deep respect. But if he wanted her help, he must appear friendly. Who knew of what use she might be? That thought needled him with guilt. Perhaps he should not involve her. At her expectant expression, however, he pressed his palm to hers, unwilling to disappoint her. She probably had no idea of the similarity between this touching of palms and the Kahn greeting, he thought. Or of the atrocities the Kahns had committed against his people.
Her palm felt warm against his. Her fingertips barely reached his knuckles. For a moment he flashed back in time, saw his daughter seated beside him. Saw their palms pressed together in a game of balance, her silvery hair the same as his, her brown eyes and dusky skin that of his wife, Lilas. "My little flower...."
A sob tore from his throat. He lowered his hand, gripped his body in an effort to stop the gut-wrenching pain surging upward. His insides clenched, but another sob escaped, and another. Dampness trickled down his face as he doubled over, afraid he was scaring the little girl, but unable to stop. He heard her jump to her feet and run away.
Sweet Syrith, he had to get out of here. But he only bent over his knees further, until his head nearly touched the ground. Still the sounds made it past his clenched jaw. My daughter, my daughter, my daughter.... The litany flowed like a river of unending grief through his mind, and he cried out to the Goddess as he’d never cried before in all the days since Leandra’s and Lilas’ deaths. A scream of raw anguish erupted. He dug his fingers into the grass, but still he couldn’t stop.
After a time, the pain eased and the sobs died in his throat. He slowly sat up and raised his eyes to the sky. "Why?" he asked. "I would have gladly died in her place. You could have taken me. You should have taken me."
No answer. He sucked in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. He realized that it was too quiet. No birds, no sounds of foraging. Were they startled by his screams? But even the wind had stilled.
He scanned the line of strange trees. Their trunks were twisted rather than straight, making odd shapes that intertwined with one another. Once, he had stood proud and straight, he thought, but now he resembled these trees.
Something moved through the thick stand. Xenia. Her eyes tight with concern, she approached him with slow, cautious steps, like one would approach a wounded animal. Perhaps she saw him as such. Perhaps she was right.
He dried his face on his sleeve. "I didn’t mean to scare the child--Cheyana," he said, adding her name awkwardly. It made him feel responsible, as an adult was responsible for a child. That made him feel vulnerable. He shoved to his feet and managed to stay there. "You shouldn’t have left her alone with me." The last came out harsh and critical.
Her ebony eyes flashed. "Who are you to judge my actions?" She said it in such a way that he felt in the wrong.
"You don’t know me. I could have hurt her."
One dark eyebrow rose. "You can barely stand. You were no threat to her."
He met her gaze. "I give you fair warning. When I am strong, I will avenge my wife’s and daughter’s murders."
Her eyes remained steadfast, as though staring into his mind and reading his thoughts. "And I give you fair warning. You cannot leave until your debt is paid."
"I told you--"
She frowned, bent down, lifted her robes and drew a dagger from a sheath strapped to her calf. She held it out. "Then end it now."
Surprised, he stared, then found himself saying, "I will end it when I am amidst my enemies, their blood a river at my feet. As a warrior."
"Do your people not end a life when one is suffering needlessly?"
"Yes, but--"
"Are you not suffering?"
‘Yes, but--" Why did he refuse? He didn’t understand his own reluctance.
"Do you wish assistance? Now that I’ve saved you, shall I help you drive this blade through your heart?" She stepped closer, the dagger’s tip touching his robes. Her scent, like wild sage and honeysuckle, filled his nostrils. Awareness of her from the fall of her thick curly hair to the smooth line of her neck mocked him.
Her gaze held his. "I see want, not hopelessness, in your eyes."
He turned away, embarrassed, and certain she hid disgust. That he should feel the least bit of desire--and for a woman half his age--disgusted him. She could not be more than twenty. He felt her watching him. "The others return," she said. "Come, I will introduce you."
"You think me a coward because I refuse your blade?" he asked, needing to know.
"Your body shows the scars of a warrior who has fought many battles. Such scars do not belong to a coward. But then only you can know what you are."
What did she mean by that? He bit back the question, disliking the turmoil she created in his mind, disliking her.
She led him in silence through the trees, her shoulder beneath his arm, her hand at his waist. Every few steps, she paused, touched her palm to his forehead, and new strength flooded his limbs. His body seemed to rebuild itself from her touch and the very air around them. He no longer felt as weak. He held back questions, unwilling to break the quiet. He found himself remembering how he’d fought beside Mariah, thought himself in love with her, thought that their mutual hatred of the Chadyks would bind them together. She had refused him. But his wounded pride had recovered, and his hatred had waned beneath the warmth of Lilas’ admiration. Though she’d been half-Kahn, half-Syrithian, it had not mattered, for she had lived and fought for Syrithian freedom. She had risked her life to save Mariah from the Kahns, and though small and unskilled in combat, had shown a bravery that sparked something in him he’d thought dead.
"Tonight we celebrate life," Xenia said.
Celebrate what you like, Jarad thought. But I will only celebrate upon the death of my enemies. His breath sped from the short walk. Ahead he saw a clearing with a fire pit ringed with river rocks. Was a river nearby? The thought of bathing, of somehow washing away the darkness in his soul, drew his gaze toward the huge trees that spanned the other side of the clearing. They appeared to go on forever. He looked for shelters, saw none, and cast a quizzical glance at her.
"Do you wish to rest?"
He sank down on a tree stump. "Yes. Where is everyone?"
"This is where we gather to dance and sing our joy to the Mother. We do not live in this sacred space."
"Then where do you live?"
"Many days walk from here."
"Then why am I here and where are your daughter and the others?"
"They gather wood and berries in the forest. Many of our people will meet us here tonight to join in the celebration."
"How will they know to meet you here?"
"We communicate with our thoughts, much as your Seers do."
"Then you know my thoughts?" He shifted on his perch.
"Only what you wish me to know. It takes a great deal of effort and concentration to touch another’s mind. We do so infrequently."
"I wish to keep my thoughts to myself," he said.
"As you will." She turned and walked away, once more fading into the trees as though she were a spirit.
"Where are you going?" he called. Silence. He sat there until he grew restless, then stood and assessed his physical condition. He could make it to the river, he decided.
* * * *
Xenia stepped into the trees, away from his turmoil, away from his pain, into her world, a world of peace she’d grown to love, and again wondered why his cry had touched her so strongly. She had seen thirty-one winters, although few strangers would guess as much. She knew her own mind, and she enjoyed her life as it was. She had worked hard to leave her past life and all she had done for her caste behind. Why complicate her life now with this man? Whether he repaid his debt didn’t matter, except it would force him to stay with the Remnant. But only while they stayed here in this place--a place she reckoned was like living between worlds because they remained separate from any one culture yet had come from them all. Eventually, they would return to their own sacred lands. And if he did not learn their ways, the ways of spirit, he would not stay. Cheyana liked him, and truth be told, Xenia liked him, too, though his thoughts centered on suffering and anger. Cheyana had at least brought out some of that suffering with her palm-touch. Once all the poison left his heart--if he chose to fight his demons and release their evil--he might find a new life here. That thought pleased her. He attracted her, made her wonder what his embrace, or the touch of his lips would feel like. But not many found it easy to accept their ways and live between worlds, she warned herself. She did not need another broken heart. And to mend his only to wound it again was unfair.
She heard a splash and forgot her musings. Gripping the satchel of ripe blackberries, she followed the sound to the river. Cheyana and the other ten of her group hid just beyond the line of trees, their gazes fixed on the man in the water.
She stopped beside Cheyana, knowing it was wrong to watch in secret as they did, but too curious to shoo them away. The Syrithian--Jarad--she reminded herself, ducked under the water, then came up, pleasure written in the lines of his face. He dove and swam, paused to catch his breath, then swam some more. She could see the golden strands of energy glowing as he drew power from the water and the air. A man of natural healing ability. He would be strong and fit for activity in only a few more days. His long silver hair fell between his shoulder blades, but didn’t cover the puckered scar that ran from below one shoulder blade to his waist. Red, angry scars cris-crossed his back and chest like a strangely painted spider-web upon his silvery skin. The web stretched taut, then relaxed as he moved his arms forward and back through the water. Her fingers tingled as she recalled washing his body and rubbing oil into the skin. She had cared for him as a mother cares for a child, but the feelings rising in her now spoke of passion and desire. For every blow he’d suffered, she wished to kiss him and ease his pain. A ridiculous notion. Whether he let go of the past or not was his choice. Not hers.
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